The Story of Three
by CarpeDiemForLife
Summary: This is the Story of (Season) Three: Sherlock, John, and Mary. There were many scenes missing from the show that are found here, lapses of time accounted for in detail, all focusing on the changing relationships between our three main characters. Can John truly forgive Mary? Has Sherlock been in love with John all along? Is Jim Moriarty REALLY back to haunt them all?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story is a behind-the-scenes of season 3, focusing on Sherlock, John, Mary, and the convoluted relationships between them. It also contains some backstory for Mary, which will feature mostly in the first few chapters. The story will later on develop its own plot that will carry it onward after the finale of season 3, examining the fallout of all that has happened. Please review and let me know if you would like to see this continued!_

_Also, the numbers before each section denote chronological order._

* * *

1

Hidden well out of sight, Mary stared through her lens down at the scene by the pool, her sniper-rifle trained precisely on the grainy-blond doctor.

"Sherlock, run!"

She had to admit, she was becoming quite impressed with this man. Jim had made him sound like a dog's squeaky toy, nothing of significance compared to the real prize, Sherlock Holmes. Just a minor nuisance, like a mosquito flitting around your face—not special enough to be given any real attention except to squish it out of existence.

But Jim was wrong. She didn't know much about this Sherlock character, and frankly, she didn't care to. He didn't interest her. But this John Watson, this doctor who hadn't trembled once while being shoved into a vest of Semtex, this soldier who so bravely offered to sacrifice himself for his comrade…

Well. It would be a shame if she had to pull the trigger.

* * *

5

John stood like a brick wall in the waiting room. His soldierly instincts were in control of his body, paying no heed to the brain neurons firing back and forth with panic.

Sherlock wasn't doing well. He'd been slipping away in the back of the ambulance, dying right there in front of John, no tricks this time, and then they reached the hospital and he was shuffled away into emergency surgery, beyond John's reach. John was forced to stay behind, no idea what was happening behind closed doors.

"_His chances of making it aren't very good," _the uselessly sympathetic nurse had told him. _"I'm afraid you should prepare yourself for the worst."_

John wanted to override all the protocols, bust through those doors, and take charge of the operation himself. He was a bloody war doctor; he knew how to handle a bullet wound. Besides, he didn't trust anyone else with Sherlock's life. What if they weren't good enough? What if one man in that room was the difference between Sherlock living or dying?

The _maybes_ and _what ifs_ were acid burning in his chest. John sat heavily in an uncomfortable chair, his hands going to his forehead.

"Mr. Watson?"

He leapt up from the seat, marching immediately to the man with the clipboard.

"Well?"

"We've extracted the bullet," the doctor said. "Mr. Holmes is alive, but _very _weak. Only time can tell if he'll pull through."

The acid drained from his chest into his stomach. John could breathe again, but every swallow of saliva threatened to make him spew up the contents of his last meal.

"It's quite miraculous," the man went on.

John stared sharply at him. "How do you mean?"

"His heart stopped. We'd given him up for dead."

John's hands curled into fists.

"And then the monitor just started beeping again. His finger was twitching and his eyes practically forced themselves open. Your partner must have a very strong will."

John didn't bother correcting him. Did it really matter anymore? After all, they _were_ partners, of a kind.

"I believe he has a good chance of making it."

Jaw clenched tightly, John was unsure what to do with this new information. There was only one thing he cared about now.

"What room is he in?"

"Mr. Watson, when he wakes up, _if _he wakes up, it won't be for days," the doctor informed him. "His body needs time to recover. Perhaps you should go home, get some-"

"What. room. is he in?"

* * *

The monitor beeped a steady, pulsing rhythm.

"Don't you _dare_ die now," was John's whispered demand. "You made a vow to _always_ be there for Mary and me. _Always_."

He stared at the face of the unconscious man under the white sheets.

"You have to pull through, all right? You have to-"

John took a long breath in through his nose and sat a little straighter.

"They say that your heart stopped. That it's some sort of miracle, you still being alive."

_I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead._

_I heard you._

"I only asked you for one more miracle, Sherlock."

Skin pale as death, eyelids hiding those bright eyes from the cruel universe, chest bare, tubes winding in and out of his body. Hooked up to the machines, Sherlock might've looked like a machine himself, but instead he looked to John like the most fragile human being in the world.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the sight and rasped, "But please God make it two."

* * *

2

Mary wanted revenge for Jim's death. She craved it.

After her family was murdered in front of her when she was a child, Mary thought that becoming a killer of bad men would satisfy that thirst for blood inside. It hadn't. So finally she'd left the CIA and gone rogue, because she knew what she needed to do: track down the bastards that had made her this way.

That's when James Moriarty found her.

At first she didn't take him seriously. Then she did. He was charming and frightening and slippery. She didn't like him at all, but she needed him. He found the men responsible for the deed in no time. With a knowing smile he handed over the documents.

Mary snatched them from his fingers, her eyes lingering uneasily on his snake-like features. She scanned the file quickly, every detail of every profile. Even after all these years she still recognized their faces. These were the men.

A week later they were dead.

And a week later she was working full-time for _Jim Moriarty—hi!_ That had been the deal. His assistance for her employment. He wanted her, wanted her badly, he'd made that clear enough. She supposed she felt… sort of flattered, actually. It was nice to be recognized as the best at what she did.

So he gave her a new name, _Mary Morstan_, and a new identity. Over time they developed a bond, one of trust and respect, something she never _imagined_ she'd have with a criminal mastermind. She hated criminals. That's why she'd become a hired gun in the first place.

But there was something addictive about Jim, something likable beneath his unlikableness, and Mary fell prey to it. But she felt confident that the relationship was mutual. Jim had never expected to truly rely on her, much less like her. It turned out that she surprised him just as much as he surprised her. Soon they were inseparable.

So when he died, when he was suddenly taken from the world, from _her_, Mary felt that once-quenched need for bloodshed return. If she could have destroyed Jim's nemesis she would have, but Jim had done his work well. Sherlock also was dead. That left only one option.

The idea of pulling a trigger on John Watson no longer bothered her.

* * *

6

John spent the night in that chair. The next morning Mrs. Hudson arrived, patted his shoulder, and told him to go home and get some sleep.

John felt a pang when he realized that he hadn't thought to inform her about Sherlock's condition, which meant that Mary must've done it sometime after he called her from the hospital. Mary was always better about these things than John. John was much more self-absorbed.

Mrs. Hudson's arrival also reminded John that there were others who deserved to hear the news. He called Greg and then Molly. He almost didn't bother calling Mycroft but did anyways, only to hear exactly what he'd expected.

"_Yes, I am aware, thank you_."

He didn't bother asking if he could expect a visit.

Relieved from duty by Mrs. Hudson, John did as she suggested. He went home, washed up, and slept through the afternoon. In the evening he shared a quiet dinner with Mary. He spent more time poking the peas and pieces of chicken with his fork than eating them.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Mary asked, placing her hand gently on his. She knew without needing to be told that John planned to return immediately to Sherlock's side.

John shook his head. "It's fine. At least one of us should show up at surgery tomorrow. Give my excuses to Sarah, will you?"

Obviously concerned about her husband, Mary simply nodded.

John went straight to the hospital after eating and sent Mrs. Hudson home, thanking her for sitting with Sherlock during the day. Teary-eyed, she left John alone in Sherlock's room, where he spent his second night in the hospital.

Over the next few days each of Sherlock's friends stopped by. John used those opportunities when Lestrade, Mary, Molly, or Mrs. Hudson were present to take a break, go home, and get rest, but otherwise he stayed by Sherlock at all hours. Even Anderson stopped by with his girlfriend on the fourth day. When he arrived, he shrugged at John.

"I'm sure he wouldn't want me here," he said, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. "But I just wanted to, you know… check in on him myself."

"Yeah, no, it's fine," John assured. "Go right in."

And so the days passed. Each day the shadows under John's eyes got bigger and darker, but he continued spending most of his time at the hospital. He dreaded the thought of being absent when Sherlock finally woke up.

He _would_ wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Here is the second installment. Next chapter will be the real beginning of the action (as Sherlock will become an actual presence in the story). In the meantime, enjoy! Thanks to those already following, and please leave a review to let me know what you think._

* * *

3

It was over too quickly the last time. The bad men hadn't suffered nearly enough. This time she was going to make the hurt last, she was going to make it personal. She needed to get close to this man, worm her way into his life, learn his weaknesses and his delights. Then tear him apart piece by bloody piece.

Only… when she smiled charmingly at him her first day on the job, he didn't smile charmingly back, as his reputation suggested he should. His smile was dead, his eyes too. It was like staring into a mirror, Mary realized. She felt sick.

It hadn't occurred to her that with Sherlock dead this man's one true weakness might already be gone. With an internal sigh she realized that she might have to content herself with doing the job quickly and with little pain for the army doctor.

She stuck around for a week, smiling at John every day, engaging him in conversation, trying to learn anything she could about him. She told herself that at the end of the week she'd kill him. She was only waiting a few days in order to stave off suspicion.

She told herself that the next week as well, and the next.

Although Mary didn't want to admit it, John made her feel… comfortable. She didn't feel so alone with him. He was suffering the same invisible injuries, and being with him dulled the pain. Besides, he was funny. He thought _she_ was funny. She grew to like him.

Looking back on it months later, Mary supposed she had no right to be surprised. She'd known from the first night she saw John Watson that he was something special, that he was worthy of attention. The fact that his charm and genuine kindness had broken through her itch for his blood was the only truly remarkable part. When she was with John, Mary felt like the past didn't exist, like she finally had a chance to wipe the slate clean and maybe, for the first time in her life, experience true happiness.

Eventually she stopped resisting John's pull, acknowledging that her original purpose was forsaken. But she didn't mind. She had a better purpose now. She would remake herself, she would _be_ Mary Morstan, and she would be happy. And she would make this man, this fascinating, loving, extraordinary man, happy too.

* * *

7

Six days in, Sherlock was still out cold. Everyone but John was at work today. John sat in the chair by Sherlock's bed, speaking words into the deaf man's ears, like he always did.

Done recounting a boring story about a patient from work, the doctor fell silent. He couldn't think of anything else to say to keep his mind off of the painful reality. He searched desperately for another dumb anecdote, but his mind drew a blank.

The bandaged chest rose up and down. John's eyes flicked from that comforting motion back to Sherlock's closed eyelids.

It was too silent. If it were Sherlock's sulking, moody silence, that would have been okay. This was another thing altogether. Finally, he broke.

"Wake up, Sherlock. Now." His voice was hoarse. "I need you to wake up and make some dickish remark about how human error makes me look old and tired."

The body may as well have been a corpse for its responsiveness. That didn't stop John from grabbing Sherlock's hand and squeezing it. "I'm right here, okay?" he said. "And I'm _staying_ until you get better. I'm not going anywhere." Guilt swept through John as he remembered a broken promise and a month without contact, and the state he'd found his friend in at the end of it.

"God, Sherlock. I never should've… mmm… I shouldn't have left you all on your own. And I shouldn't have gotten angry about the drugs. Okay? I'm sorry."

A shadowy attempt at a bitter smile crossed the blogger's face. "Oh, I bet you're just faking this to get me to say nice things again. Well that's as nice as it's getting, so you might as well get up now."

The consulting detective didn't comply. John ground his teeth together, his eyes staring fixedly at Sherlock's pale countenance. Squeezing the hand in his more fiercely, John bent forward and rested his forehead atop his hand.

His back was just starting to ache when John jolted upright. Was he imagining things or was that pressure he'd felt on his fingers? His eyes darted to Sherlock's. Those eyelids were struggling open, revealing the shocking blue behind them for the first time in almost a week.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

He was awake but not aware. He stared forward into the air and, though his hand pressed harder against John's, he didn't turn to look at the other man. He seemed oblivious to John's presence, his eyes glazed over. John's heart compressed. He wrapped his other hand around Sherlock's as well.

"Sherlock?" he tried again.

His best friend took in a deep and shaky breath. Then he gasped one word.

"_Mary_."

Something like a hammer slammed into John's chest. He watched as those eyes flickered shut, the wounded human's energy expended. The hand in his went limp. Clearing his throat, John took his hands away, brushing them against his jeans. He sat upright in his chair and nodded crisply.

Pulling out his mobile, John dialed Mary's number. It rang two times, and then, _"Is he_-"

"You best come in," John said. Just hearing his wife's voice—kind, clever, caring Mary—immediately calmed him, and he shed the petty jealousy.

"_I'm on my way_."

With a smile, John tucked the phone back into his pocket and then sought out a nurse to inform them of the development. Mary would be here soon, and she would make everything all right. That's what Mary always did.

* * *

4

A feeling of acceptance came over Mary as she turned around, leveling her gun on the intruder. Sherlock's eyes flashed with surprise, which he pitifully fumbled to mask.

Geared up in her assassin's garb, the black fabric clinging to her, the gun resting heavy and familiar in her hand, Mary felt the bitterness, the anger, the bloodlust rising up in her.

"So… what do you do now? Kill us both?"

This man standing in front of her, arrogantly offering his help, had taken Jim from her, escaping unscathed himself. And now his very presence threatened to take John from her.

There was absolutely no way she would let that happen.

This man had destroyed her life once already, taking the most important person in the world from her—the Sherlock Holmes to her John Watson—and she was not about to sit back and watch herself be destroyed again.

She was 5 years old, watching her parents' blood spill across the walls and carpets.

She was 3 years younger, letting the realization of Jim's death wash over and through her, infecting her blood with that carnal desire for vengeance.

She was here and now, staring down the enemy who wanted to take someone else from her.

"_Mom! Dad!" she shrieked._

"No, Mrs. Watson, you won't."

"_Don't be dead, Jim," she told the empty air, a bottle in her hand. "Don't leave me in this world alone."_

She fired.

It was with some surprise that her eyes found the bullet's mark. She never missed a shot. Which meant that she hadn't missed this one. Which meant there was still a part of her that didn't want Sherlock dead, some part of genuine affection in her subconscious that even her lifelong raging bloodlust couldn't drown out. Because that bullet hole was a potentially fatal wound, and yet a potentially _not_ fatal wound. For the first time in her life Mary had been conflicted, and she'd been so without even realizing it.

_It's your choice whether you live or die, then, _Mary thought, slipping out of the room that had become a crime scene. John would be upstairs dialing 999 in no time. Apparently some part of her wanted him alive, so she would give him a fair chance.

* * *

8

"He's been drifting in and out," murmured John.

They stood together outside of Sherlock's room, staring in at him through the glass. Mostly he was still, but there was the occasional twitch of the eyebrow and shift of the head to confirm that he was still alive.

"He hasn't made any sense yet, he'll just mumble random words."

"Like what?" she asked, looking curiously at John.

"Something about a beard and a plant… He hasn't asked for anyone else since he said your name."

"May I go in and see him? You know, privately."

"Yeah, of course," John agreed. "Maybe he'll respond to you."

"Right." Mary nodded. "I'll just pop in, then."

"I'm gonna go grab some crap coffee. Would you like some?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

She leaned forward and kissed her husband on the lips. She smiled at him as he started to walk away. The second his back was turned the smile slid away like oil over water. With a soul fortified by nerves of steel, Mary pushed open the door.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you ever so much to Steefwaterbutter who left the first review. It really cheered me. Now onwards we go!_

* * *

9

The plan was formulated by the time his feet touched the ground outside his window. Mobile in hand, Sherlock made his first call.

"_Hello_?" Anderson answered.

"My number one top-secret bolt hole is Leinster Gardens."

"_Sherlock! What are you-?_"

"You only know about it because you followed me there one night."

"_What_?" cried the outraged voice._ "I never followed you anywhere!_"

Sherlock scoffed. "Obviously! That isn't the point."

"_Why are you telling me this?_"

"So that you can tell someone else."

"_What?_"

"If someone comes asking, you know what to say."

"_Sherlock, I don't-_"

The detective hung up. Quickly dialing, he made his second call. There was a crackle and then, "_'Ello? This Shezza?_"

Sherlock rolled his eyes exasperatedly. Stupid question. Who else could it possibly be? Sherlock was the one who'd given Billy the phone—no one else knew the number, or would have any reason to call, for that matter.

"Stop calling me that. You know my real name now."

"_Oh, right. Whatchoo be needing, then?_"

"I have a job for you. Meet me at my flat in _precisely_ one hour."

"_Sure, sure._"

"And bring a bottle of Claire-de-la-lune perfume with you."

"_Wuh? I don' have no-_"

"Buy it with the cash I gave you."

"_Aw, but I was savin' that fo-_"

"I will pay you back double, Billy," he promised, voice taut with annoyance.

"_Well then. You got yo'self a deal, Mr. 'olmes_."

"Don't be late."

Sherlock ended the call. Eyes peeled—it should be a couple of hours yet before his disappearance was noticed, but nevertheless—Sherlock stepped to the main street and hailed himself a cab.

* * *

10

John stared at the ringing phone. None of this was sitting right with him. The chair… When had it been moved back? Sherlock must've done it since breaking out of the hospital. But what for? If he was on the run, hiding, why would he bother to do that? And the bottle of Claire-de-la-lune perfume… What did it all mean?

"John, you have to answer it!" Mrs. Hudson insisted.

Rather unsettled, John took the call, putting the mobile to his ear. "Sherlock?"

"_John_."

"Where are you?"

"_John, I need you to trust me. Do. you. trust me?_"

John shot a look at Mrs. Hudson. She took the hint and scuttled from the room, hands raised. He took in a deep breath. "Of course I trust you."

"_Come to Leinster Gardens. That's where I am. Tell _no_ one where you're going. Not Mary, not Lestrade. No one can know that you've heard from me._"

"Mrs. Hudson already knows," divulged John honestly.

"_Mrs. Hudson is fine. But no one else can know. Promise me that."_

"Yeah, all right, I promise. Where am I coming, again?"

"_Leinster Gardens, quickly as you can. It will almost certainly be dangerous._"

The line cut out. Grimacing, John put down the phone and looked again at the moon-shaped bottle.

* * *

John rounded the street corner slowly. What was he looking for?

"Oi!"

Squinting forward, it took John a second before the voice processed in his memories. He turned in shock to the homeless man crouched on the sidewalk.

"Billy?" he checked.

"Yeh, dat's right. You broke mah arm, 'member that?"

"For the last time, it was a _sprain_." John closed his eyes, pushing away the frustration. He needed Billy's help. No spraining this time. "Just… tell me where he is?"

"Numba twenty-three is wha' chyou're lookin' for."

John nodded. "Great, thank you."

The doctor set off, paying no more attention to the whining drug addict. Marching down the street, he kept his eyes on the numbers and stopped at 23. Not at all sure what he would find inside, John strutted to the door and pushed his way through.

Behind the door was nothing. Not a townhouse, anyways. John stared around himself in amazement. How long had Sherlock known about this?

"Sherlock?" he called out.

"I'm here."

John followed the direction of the echoing voice and soon met with Sherlock in a skinny hallway with concrete floors and rusty pipes. "What is this place?" he asked.

The sleuth smiled proudly. "The Empty Houses. 23 and 24 Leinster Gardens. They don't exist—they haven't ever since they were torn down to make way for the Underground system. All that's left are the fronts."

"Incredible," John breathed.

"I agree," the detective admitted. His expression sobered. "But I haven't brought you here for a history lesson, John."

"Why are _you_ here? You should still be in the hospital."

"Some things are more important."

"Than your health?" John exclaimed.

"Yes."

The two friends locked eyes for several seconds.

John exhaled. "Tell me what's going on."

Sherlock spun around, picking up something behind him that John hadn't noticed before. His mouth fell slightly open as Sherlock held out the bulletproof vest.

"Put this on," his friend instructed.

At this point following Sherlock's orders was muscle memory. Before he'd even thought about it, he was removing his shirt and taking the vest into his own hands. _All right, fine, so I _do_ have a current commander_, his brain grumbled as he put the vest on.

"Feel free to explain at _any_ time," John said, buttoning his shirt back up. Sherlock was still only watching him.

"First, I must warn you: you won't like what you're about to hear. I ask only that you give me your trust."

"You're really starting to freak me out, Sherlock, okay?"

Done buttoning, John's hands went to his hips, and he stared long and hard at his best friend. The injured man was quiet. He was clearly reluctant to say whatever needed to be said. After a few seconds he swallowed, raised his chin, and—

"Mary shot me."

—everything stopped.

* * *

There was nothing to say, nothing that _could_ be said. John shifted between his feet, his mouth opening and closing, nostrils flaring. In his eyes Sherlock saw the same heartbreak and lack of comprehension that he'd witnessed on the night he'd returned from the dead.

"What are you talking about?" John finally managed.

_I'm so sorry, John_. Those broken, angry, desperate eyes kept Sherlock firmly rooted in place. "The person that I interrupted in Magnussen's office was your wife, Mary Watson. It's clear that there is something in her past that Magnussen is holding over her head. And it seems she will do anything to keep you from finding it out. There's only one question that remains."

"_Only one_?" hissed John, his body still fidgeting with uncharacteristic frequency. "What _bloody_ question is that?"

The taller man looked thoughtfully towards the front of the building. "Did she shoot to kill me," he murmured, "or merely to buy herself time to negotiate my silence?"

"Tell me… that this is some elaborate joke. Just tell me that this is some sick prank. Because this, _this_, is going _too_ far, Sherlock!"

"No."

"Are you delirious?" John stepped forward then back. "Is that what all this is? ICU delirium?"

"No, John. This is real. You said that you trusted me."

The doctor's jaw clenched. He stood stock still for a moment, before bending over, hands on his knees, sucking in harsh breaths. Sherlock waited patiently.

Standing straight again, John forced out, "Mary shot you."

"Yes."

"And now you're wondering…?"

"If she meant to kill me or simply incapacitate me."

John shook his head with a bitter smile. "That one is pretty obvious, I think."

Sherlock's brow wrinkled. "How?"

"You _DIED_ on that table, Sherlock!" John roared. The sudden transformation into a mask of rage was alarming enough for Sherlock's whole body to twitch. "Clinically. dead. _That's_ what the doctor said." His voice was quiet again, but fierce. "He said that it was a _miracle_ that you were still alive. So, I'm thinking, it's fairly likely that whoever shot you _MEANT FOR YOU TO DIE_!"

Sherlock sent a wide-eyed look around them. "For God's sake, keep your voice down," he reprimanded. John's mouth fell open to retort—quite loudly, by the looks of it—but Sherlock put up a hand and the shorter man smashed his teeth together instead, his fingers curling in and out of fists. "Mary will be here soon. Any moment now, in fact."

"Sorry, what?"

"We have to get you ready." He strutted off down the hallway and John hurried along behind him.

"Mary is coming here?" he demanded. "Is _that_ what you said?"

The detective halted in front of a crud-covered chair and shot him a confused glance. "Of course. I told you, there is one question yet to be answered."

"I've just answered it for you."

"No, you've failed to take into account the obvious."

"_Enlighten_ me."

"What matters is whether or not Mary is a good enough shot to have intentionally hit where she did or if it was an accident."

"An _accident_—?"

Ignoring him, Sherlock stared into the air. "Without further proof I can't possibly know for sure. Her clothes, stance, and steady hand suggest a long history with firearms, but the fact that she chose not to take the head shot suggests that she didn't mean to kill me." He turned fervently towards John, a life in his eyes that contrasted the deathly pale sheen of the sweat on his face. "She is a puzzle, John. Oh, she is a puzzle, and tonight I will solve her."

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't…" John swallowed. "…do that. Talk about Mary like that. It's a tad unsettling."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Right."

Shutting his eyes, the soldier took a deep breath in, allowing the calm to smooth over his abused nerves. When he opened his eyes again he was prepared to do what had to be done no matter what the emotional stakes involved.

"What do I do?"

"_You_…" said Sherlock, reaching towards the other man's neck. John didn't move as Sherlock popped his collar. "…get to be _me_ for the next hour or so." He smirked. "Try not to enjoy it _too_ much."

"Not the time for jokes."

Sherlock's face fell flat, but he complied. Quiet now, his hands went to John's hair. Both were silent as Sherlock ran his fingers through the short strands, gently pulling up and pushing back. John swallowed from a dry mouth.

"There," murmured Sherlock, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

John gave him a deadpan look. "I don't look anything like you," he pointed out. "Even with my coat collar up and my hair sticking out."

"Seated in the shadows you'll be perfectly convincing, I assure you."

"So I'm your double, is that it? Pretend to be you so that… what?"

"So that Mary doesn't know you're here," was the answer. "It's the only way to be sure she'll speak freely."

Suddenly Sherlock's mobile vibrated inside his pocket. Their eyes flashed together. "Billy," Sherlock said. "Mary's here." John breathed in through his nose and nodded, giving his trust wholly over to Sherlock in that brief moment. Sherlock slowly nodded in return, allowing a small—sad—smile.

"Places everyone," the detective whispered ironically, before bringing the phone to his ear and flitting off into the shadows.

Staring far down the hallway, John took his seat and waited for the play to begin.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: A great many thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter! It was such a lovely response. I hope this chapter will continue to entertain. _

_As always, I would be happy to receive reviews. Not only is it a boost, but I'd love to hear your opinions on things, dear readers! Like what you think of the characters and the plotline of the actual show, as well as how you feel about my portrayals of them. I admit, I'm curious about how other people reacted to the finale of season 3, and especially Mary's part in it all. So even if you don't have any comment about this story, know that you're welcome (and encouraged!) to share any general thoughts/feelings about "Sherlock."_

* * *

11

"_No. Mercy."_

_That was the Number 1 rule of Mr. Jim Moriarty, London's resident consulting criminal. But it didn't sit well with Mary._

"_No mercy, Mary my dear," he whispered in her ear as she fired on a painted dummy._

_For months he trained her to shoot without heed to the victim's biography. He set up a straw man and dramatically droned whilst waltzing around the figure, "This… is Eddie! Eddie's a _very_ nice guy. Eddie's never done _anything_ to you. Eddie has two little girls at home, without a mommy. But Eddie is in my way. Kill Eddie." _

_She hesitated. He slapped her. He slapped her again. She fired._

_Over and over again, until the bruises and the burns made up the normal patchwork of her skin, until finally she stopped hesitating._

_But dummies and targets weren't the real thing. When Mary aimed her gun at a real person for the first time, she couldn't stomach it. She gazed upon the creature of life, saw nothing but an innocent man's bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and she put her gun down, stomach heaving._

_Jim dealt her a severe beating that night. He didn't do it himself, of course. That would be dirtying his own hands. But he watched blankly from a corner as a hired muscleman tossed her around. He ignored each muted groan, each cry of pain that slipped past her lips. Mary didn't bring herself so low as to beg him to stop. She knew he wouldn't. She'd made a deal with the devil and now this was her lot in life. Kill or be killed. This was just a warning._

_But for the first time in their strange relationship, Mary got a real sense of what she meant to Jim, of how much he truly valued her. Rather than kill her for her failure, he merely beat her. And afterwards, even more extraordinarily, he actually catered to her needs. Her next field mission was different._

"_That woman is nooooo innocent," he sang through the phone. _

_Mary stayed focused on her view of the Chinese woman behind the computer. The woman's lips moved. Mary heard the sound of typing through the receiver._

"_She's the head mommy of a gang—ooo! Bad, isn't it? And you'll never _guess_ what she's been up to. Let's just say… [His lips smacked] three innocent people are dead." Mary's blood began to itch. Her lip curled. "Oof! Doesn't that just make you _mad_? She's a bad, bad woman. We don't want vermin like her to stay alive, do we, Mary?"_

_More mouthing followed by more typing._

"_Now."_

_That's all Jim had to say, and Mary fired with relish._

"_O-ho-ho, well _done_! Excellent shot."_

_Finally Mary responded. "Everything—you just told me. Was any of it true?"_

"_On my life, every single word. I _gave_ you my solemn oath never to lie to you, didn't I? It hurts that you don't trust me."_

_And though Mary didn't say anything, she was surprised to find that the truth was… she _did_ trust him._

_From then on Jim twisted and prodded and nudged and coddled, forever whispering "No mercy" into her ears, until Mary no longer recognized friend from foe. Innocent and guilty eventually ceased to exist when you saw the world as Jim Moriarty saw it, as Mary was beginning to see it. Jim's teaching completely changed her life, and she embraced the philosophy of "No mercy" wholeheartedly._

Or she'd thought she had. Until one day Sherlock Holmes dared to actually worm his way into her heart and she slipped up. She failed. She compromised the mission. She'd acted with mercy, and endangered herself by doing so. What had she been _thinking_? Hadn't Jim taught her better than this?

So when she went to meet him again, Mary was ready. Gun packed, shields up… Sherlock wouldn't be getting out alive this time, not unless he swore never to tell John. Then he could live. But if not…

No mercy.

* * *

12

The ambulance took Sherlock, sweating, shaking, and bleeding, away from 221B Baker Street. John was disgusted with himself. How had he let his own preoccupations, no matter how great, keep him so distracted from Sherlock's condition? He was a _doctor_ for Christ's sake!

"What will you do?"

John turned slowly on his treacherous wife. "I'm going to be here when Sherlock gets back, for starters," he answered harshly. Mary's expression didn't change in the slightest. She was calm as a whistle, like she had been all night. The anger rolled in the pit of his stomach.

"Are you going to live here, then?"

"Maybe. At least for a few days. I need time to think."

"Fine."

Their eyes were locked, his challenging, hers silent. No words were spoken aloud in the electrically charged room.

"Well…" interrupted Mary, "you know where I'll be."

She turned away from her husband, towards the door. John watched in complete silence as she took six steps, until she stood directly in the doorway.

"Really?" The word clawed its way from his throat like an animal escaping its cage.

Mary stopped and turned. "What?"

"Not even one 'I'm sorry'?"

"Would it make any difference?"

John stared. Was this heartless robot really the same woman that he'd married? Was he no different than Janine, having been utterly taken in by a sociopath who actually cared nothing for him, even when a ring became involved?

He shook his head. "I don't know. It could've done. But you really _aren't_ sorry at all, are you? You think it's all my fault, that I chose this, so the consequences are my own to bear."

Mary was quiet. For just one moment, her eyes became sad.

"Goodbye, John."

She was gone.

That was good.

It was definitely good.

* * *

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson heard the familiar sound of gunshots blasting into her poor wall and for one moment thought, _Sherlock_. Then she remembered that Sherlock was back in hospital and John was upstairs in 221B alone.

"Oh dear," she murmured sadly, shaking her head and retrieving her herbal soothers from a cabinet.

* * *

13

It was over and Mary knew it. Once John read that flash drive, any hope for her, any doubt in him, would disappear. Mary didn't think it would settle well with her husband that she had once placed a red dot on his chest. She doubted he would take kindly to her alignment with the man he considered more evil than any other that he'd ever met.

What was the use in trying? The use in opening up her innermost heart to him and handing over her feelings on a silver platter? He wouldn't care that she regretted every action of her past that separated her from his goodness. He wouldn't care that she'd never experienced real love until she'd met him. He wouldn't care that she'd tried _so hard_ to live the life she might've had if her parents hadn't been killed.

_John Watson. Unremarkable, but important. He's on Daddy Sherlock's leash. But do be careful: this puppy bites when his Daddy is threatened,_ Jim had told her.

He wouldn't care.

She lied. She shot Sherlock.

He wouldn't care, so neither would she.


	5. Chapter 5

14

The hospital discharged Sherlock barely over a month later. He would have been kept longer, but Sherlock didn't like hospitals—he wanted to be back in the comfort of 221B.

When his first request for an early release was refused, the consulting detective began by breaking the rules, sneaking out of the hospital for lunch every day. But each time the hospital staff only reprimanded him and dragged him back to the abominable place. So a month into his captivity, Sherlock began waging psychological warfare. Every nurse and doctor that had the misfortune to enter his room was deduced down to their knickers, and often left the room in tears or in a rage.

Four days later Sherlock got his early release.

Walking slowly up the steps to his flat, Sherlock paused. His head lifted thoughtfully, senses alert. Absorbing the information passing into him, Sherlock put on his most casual expression and walked up the remaining steps.

When Sherlock strolled into the sitting room, the figure in the armchair looked up from his book. Slowly standing, John stared at the unmoving Sherlock for several seconds. Then,

"You're a day early, mate. Halloween's tomorrow."

A relieved grin broke out on Sherlock's lips. He shrugged slightly, taking off his coat and hanging it up.

"I do look a bit like a ghost," he admitted.

"I was thinking zombie, actually." John's mouth twitched. "The living dead. And I can definitely imagine you with a hunger for brains."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. Consuming average human brains would turn me stupid." John grinned. Sherlock smiled with him, the tension that had been building in him for the last month beginning to drain away.

"No, but seriously, Sherlock," said John sternly. "Why aren't you at the hospital? I know you aren't supposed to have been discharged yet."

"I _am_ at the hospital."

Suddenly John wondered if he ought to be worried about his friend's mental state. "Are you?"

Sherlock smirked. "In my opinion, yes," he answered smartly. "Look, there's the canteen, the private bathroom is back through there, and here stands my doctor."

John shook his head, but couldn't help a smile. "So are you well, then?"

"As well as can be expected."

Clearing his throat, John nodded. He sat back down, picking up his book. "Well, let me know if you need anything."

Sherlock watched John silently. The air felt suddenly tight and heavy. It was clear that, no matter how cordial their greeting, John was anything but all right. Hoping that he wasn't poking a bear, Sherlock couldn't refrain from asking the question on his mind.

"Where's Mary?"

John didn't look up. "At home, I expect."

The next question itched in the back of his throat. He was afraid to ask, afraid that the words would make John reconsider his current location. Sherlock didn't want that. He liked John right where he was. But that was selfish.

"Why aren't _you_?"

"I am."

Sherlock didn't say another word, allowing John the air of normalcy that he clearly wanted. But when he started to walk towards his bedroom, there was a shy smile on his lips.

He popped his head back into the living room a second later. "Oh, and John?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell my parents that I'm already home from hospital. They'll want to celebrate or do something equally as painful. I reckon they can be kept in the dark for at least a month."

"You got it."

* * *

15

John was coming up the steps to the flat after another day spent _not_ speaking to Mary at work when he heard a loud crash above him.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, frantically racing the rest of the way up the stairs.

He burst through the door to find Sherlock sprawled out on his back on the floor between the kitchen and sitting room, face tight with agony, cringing into himself. A quiet groan streamed from his pursed lips.

"Christ, Sherlock." He rushed to his friend's side, checking his eyes first, then gripping him by the arms. "Here, I've got you, come on."

Sherlock let out a yell as John hoisted him to his feet. The consulting detective clenched his jaw, wincing in pain with every step. John settled him as gently as possible into his armchair.

"My pain meds," Sherlock bit out.

"Where are they?"

"Bedside table, top drawer."

John jogged through the flat to Sherlock's room and was soon yanking open the appropriate drawer. The orange bottle was just there. John grabbed it and was about to dash back when something caught his eye. Distracted, John reached into the drawer and carefully picked up a stack of pictures paper-clipped together. The graphic photos riveted his eyes. What exactly was he looking at?

"_John_?"

The pain-ridden cry snapped John back to attention. Hurriedly he slammed the drawer shut, folding and pocketing the curious pictures. Bottle in hand, he raced to Sherlock's side.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, handing it over. Sherlock didn't spare the energy to deduce the reason for John's holdup. The pain was too great—he could only grab the bottle and dump three pills into his mouth, dry-swallowing them.

They were quiet, John crouched by his friend in silent support while he rode out the rest of the pain. It took a few minutes before the pills kicked in and Sherlock began to calm down.

"I knew you'd left before you were well enough," John remarked.

Sherlock gave a half-smile, relaxing back into the chair. "I had to. The doctor had a beard."

"So?"

"I told you." He looked up through heavily lidded eyes, a true smile smoothing across his lips. "I like my doctors clean-shaven."

John tried to ignore the way that his heart jumped happily at those stupid, ridiculous, meaningless words.

"And what if I hadn't been here to take care of you, hmm?"

"I knew you would be."

John smiled softly. "No, you didn't."

* * *

16

Sherlock observed John's behavior for days, and what he saw wasn't sitting well with him. At home John was quiet, often withdrawn, and he was overly nice to Sherlock, never complaining about his annoying habits. Every day when John returned from work his walk was stiff and his muscles were filled with tension. Mary's name was never mentioned between them.

Feeling the necessity to do _some_thing, one day Sherlock called in a favor.

* * *

Two and a half weeks after Sherlock's discharge, John came home after work to find a woman in the flat, chatting with Sherlock. The duo fell quiet when John entered. Molly smiled as John shrugged off his coat.

"Hello, John."

"It's nice to see you, Molly," he replied. "I didn't realize we were expecting a visit."

"Oh, Molly just wanted to stop by, check in on me," Sherlock answered, lips pulled up into a smile that bordered on creepy. Molly glanced at the detective and then back to John with an unconvincing nod and smile.

"Okay…"

Choosing to ignore it—Sherlock would explain or not whenever he wanted to—John went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. When he reentered the sitting room, Sherlock and Molly were on the couch, talking quietly together. John blocked them out, dropping into his chair with some papers from the office to look over. A minute later he noticed in his periphery as Molly stood up and made towards the kitchen. He wasn't paying attention as she crossed behind his chair.

John stopped reading. Head slowly rising, he let a few seconds pass by.

"…Molly?"

"Um, yes?"

"What are you doing?"

Her small hands continued to rub his shoulders with impressive force. "It's just, um… you're so _tense_, John," she explained nervously. "Trouble at work?" The rubbing continued, venturing to his neck now, smoothing away the stress and the tightness of his muscles.

Straight-faced, John turned on Sherlock. The detective wasn't looking back, instead focusing intently on his phone.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?" Sherlock's head popped up, the paragon of innocence.

"Did you bring Molly over just to give me a massage?"

"What?" the younger man objected. "No! She stopped by of her own accord, like I said."

Quiet. Then, "Molly?"

"Y-yes?"

"Care to chime in?"

"Um… That's… I mean…"

Sherlock let out a sigh as John stood up, ending the massage. The young woman watched John nervously as he turned to her. He forced a smile. "It's fine, Molly, thank you. But if you don't mind, I need to have a word with my flatmate."

Molly nodded, shooting Sherlock an apologetic look as she pulled on her coat and scarf. She hurried to the door, and then halted. Her hands pulled at each other as she turned to face John, holding herself up confidently.

"I didn't mind, you know," she declared. "You really do look like you could use it."

John's smile softened until it was more genuine. "I hope he's at least paying you for this."

Molly grinned. "Oh, he knows that he owes me one," she answered. The two friends shared a chuckle as Sherlock rolled his eyes, curling into a ball on the couch. "But really," she said, "if you ever need anything, just let me know. I'm happy to help if I can."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks."

Nodding goodbye to the two men, Molly saw herself out.

John turned on Sherlock.

"What were you thinking?"

Sherlock scoffed petulantly, getting on his feet. "You're always tense. You need to relax or your muscles will ache for the rest of your life."

"You can't just call Molly in to rub my shoulders!"

"Whyever not?"

"Because—!" John grinned up at the heavens, the sort of grin that asked, _How is this even happening?_ "You can't."

"Truly compelling logic."

"Shut up. Look…" The doctor took a moment to sort out his thoughts. "I appreciate your concern. But don't do that again, all right?"

Sherlock pursed his lips in a sort of pout. Eventually he bit out, "Fine."

John let out a breath of relieved air. Smiling now, he was able to find some of the humor in the situation. It was pretty ridiculous after all, especially with the world's one and only consulting detective sulking like his father had just confiscated his favorite toy.

"It's going to take me some time," John offered. Sherlock's expression smoothed out, and he met John's gaze with equal respect. "This isn't something you can quick-fix. I'm trying to… adjust to a new life. There are a lot of things on my mind that I need to sort through."

When Sherlock said nothing, John assumed that was the end of the conversation. Rolling his shoulders back, he picked up his office papers and cup, preparing to move into his bedroom.

Sherlock's brain raced unhappily. John had recently been exhibiting all the classic behaviors of guilt, and Sherlock had done nothing as he watched his friend bear that burden. Today, the one time he _did_ try to help, his help was rejected. But he couldn't bear to watch John suffer this way any longer. He had already calculated the most probable cause of John's guilty conscience, and if subtler methods wouldn't work it seemed he would have to address the issue directly.

Before John could take a step from the room, Sherlock called, "John."

The older man faced him obligingly, if a tad impatiently. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry for what I said."

"When?"

"While it is true that you are inordinately attracted to danger, the problem lies equally in that danger is attracted to you."

These words triggered a palpable reaction. John's thoughts turned instantly to the memory of that painful moment when he'd been told—by the two people he loved most in the world—that he and he alone bore sole responsibility for Mary's choice to be deceitful, that it was his attraction to a particular lifestyle that was to blame for everything.

Swallowing a bit sickly, John set his things down and crossed his arms. "What do you mean?"

"People like Mary and me, we, uh…" Sherlock smiled apologetically, even self-loathingly. "We're practically wired to attach ourselves to you. To love you," he added, words blunted. "Perhaps because you can love us in return. Being… unused to such things, we become selfish. _You_ aren't to blame for our actions, John. But I understand why Mary did what she did."

At this, John cut in angrily. "No, _no_! There is _no_ excuse-"

"I would also do anything for you," the taller man said, his eyes full of the sentiment he so publicly detested. "We are no different, Mary and I."

"Oh really?" demanded John.

"Yes."

"That's what you think?"

Sherlock made a face. "It's fairly obvious-"

"No—no, it isn't," said John fiercely. "Jesus, Sherlock. Are you really so detached from humanity that you can't see the difference?"

"I don't understand-"

"I can see that."

Their eyes locked tightly together, but all was silent.

Annoyance dripping from his every word, Sherlock asked, "Are you going to _explain_ or simply continue to glower at me?"

"I'm not glowering."

"You are, you're clearly upset-"

"I'm not upset at _you_, all right?" John snapped. "I'm just… I'm upset, yes, but not… at you."

The room fell quiet. Sherlock wasn't arguing, but he clearly didn't believe John either. He waited irritably for John to continue. John stared back, his jaw tight. Why didn't Sherlock understand this? Was he really going to have to explain it? He wasn't any good with these things. It had been hard enough to just admit forgiveness when he'd thought they were both going to _die_.

"Sherlock… you jumped into a bonfire to save my life. You kept quiet about who shot you, for my sake. You helped plan my wedding, even though you were terrified of it. You are the… most loyal… and _un_selfish best friend that anyone could have. And I _know_ you'd do anything for me.

"Now Mary… Mary didn't care about protecting me. She wouldn't do anything _for_ me, she would do anything to _keep_ me—even something that she knows would leave me an utter wreck. _That's_ selfishness, Sherlock. It isn't love; it's possession. So no, you aren't the least bit similar."

That was what he _wanted _to say. They were the thoughts running through his mind as he stared silently. But John was not a man of words. Breaking the long period of soundless eye contact, John strutted to the coat stand.

"Where are you going?" burst Sherlock.

"I need a break," John said, still in motion. "I'm going out."

"Will you be coming back?"

John stopped, letting out a tense breath. He turned to Sherlock with a teasing smile. "There's no need to move my chair," he promised. Sherlock gave a one-sided smile and then John was gone, leaving an unsettled man behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

17

John returned later that evening, but Sherlock knew well enough not to broach the subject again so quickly.

So he waited all the way until breakfast the next morning to bring it up.

"She did save my life, you know," he said from behind his newspaper.

"She also tried to kill you," replied John just as calmly, staring down at his own newspaper.

Sherlock dramatically folded and tossed his away, leaning forward on his elbows until he was invading John's space. "Yes."

With Sherlock's face so unnervingly close to his, John couldn't stop his eyes from abandoning the paper and focusing on the other man. "Somehow, I don't think we're on the same page," he said tersely.

"There are two Marys, John," explained Sherlock fervently, hands gesturing. "_That's_ what you need to understand."

"Two Marys," was the flat echo. "Like the triplet husbands?"

Sherlock ignored this sardonic remark. "The assassin meant to kill me. And yet the bullet was strategically placed to give me a chance to live. Therefore there _must_ have been a subconscious Mary who interfered, who wouldn't let her take the kill shot." He leaned even farther forward, forcing John to stretch backwards. "_That_ is your wife, John," the detective insisted. "_That_ is the woman you married."

John let out a bark of laughter. "I married a schizophrenic psychopath. Great."

Sherlock jolted upright. "What? No! That's not-"

"Just… all right." John held up a hand to stay him. "Let me think about it." Shoving a piece of toast into his mouth, John got up and walked away. Sherlock respectfully kept his mouth shut and didn't follow, but John could feel the eyes on his back when he left for the surgery that day.

* * *

18

It was obvious from the moment he stepped through the door, by the way he held himself and the way his eyes immediately found Sherlock. The younger man set aside his computer, giving John his attention.

"You've decided something," Sherlock greeted.

"I thought about what you said."

"And?"

"You're right," John said simply. "The Mary Morstan I fell in love with does exist… _somewhere_ inside my wife. But she's not alone in there, and it doesn't seem to me like she's even in control. How am I supposed to love someone I don't even know, someone who-" He bit his tongue, unable to speak the words of Mary's crime against him. He went on. "The Mary that I love is only a _shade_ of my wife, and as for the rest of her… I never could."

John took a steady breath in and stepped forward. "But. Mary isn't the only variable in the equation anymore. She's carrying my child, Sherlock. A woman that I wouldn't trust to get me the _newspaper_ is controlling the fate of my unborn child. I can't let that happen. I have to…" His words tapered off.

"What, John?"

"Well, _do_ something!"

"You can't exactly _steal_ the baby," said Sherlock wryly. "At least not while it's still inside her. And I estimate the chances are high that Mary will disappear before the child is born should the rift between you remain."

"Nope. That's unacceptable."

Sherlock stared up at him. "There is an obvious solution, of course."

John knew it. He'd known it all along. Still, the thought was like soap in his mouth. It took a good five seconds before he could get the words out.

"Go back to her."

"Not only that, you'll-"

"Have to pretend that I still love her."

Driven by the need to move, John crossed to the window and stared out the panes at the rest of the world. The sky was just beginning to darken, and there were a few people on the sidewalk down below, meandering along the daily path of their ordinary, unremarkable lives.

"You _do_ still love her."

"That I love _all_ of her, then," growled John, shooting his friend a glare. He turned back towards the outside, his voice dropping lower. "I'll have to act like I've forgiven her."

"Can you do it?"

When John turned back around, he was wearing the most determined expression that Sherlock could ever recall seeing on that face. For a second Sherlock was truly taken aback, his lips parting with surprise at the visage.

"This is my son or daughter we're talking about," John said grimly. "I'll put on a show like you've never seen."

* * *

19

When John moved back in Mary thought that things were finally going to be okay again. After almost two months of only seeing him at work, and never a word spoken between them outside absolute necessity, she'd become fearful that nothing would ever change. That he would simply ignore her forever, never to come home. But then he did, and Mary's heart lifted up into the clouds.

Mary was a fool. She hadn't anticipated John's stubborn nature. She hadn't realized when he suddenly showed up at home that the silent rule still applied. It only took her a few days to realize how much worse this was. Now, not only was she haunted by John's silent and unforgiving presence at work but it trailed her around the house as well, a constant reminder of her sins.

_Why did you come back?_ she screamed at him whenever the tears threatened to break loose. She couldn't let him see that weakness in her, so she shifted her thoughts to anger instead. _Why? If you never mean to speak to me, if you won't forgive me, why come back?_

He never answered her unspoken inquiries. He never said anything at all. It was like she was a ghost, unseen, unacknowledged.

_Is that what I am?_ she asked. _Am I dead to you? Is that why you shuffle around me without ever _looking_ at me, John?_

Sometimes Mary experienced the urge to ask about Sherlock's condition—she really did miss the man, but she was too ashamed to go see him—but she worried that, while this might succeed in finally getting a response from John, it wouldn't be a pleasant one.

So she refrained from ever opening her mouth and she put up with the unbearable situation as best she could. If John was purposefully torturing her, so be it. She'd suffered through torture before. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was survive.

* * *

20

Sherlock rang the doorbell and then folded his hands behind his back in patient repose. He listened to the sound of footsteps—not wearing shoes but not barefoot, so socks, on wood flooring—behind the door, and held himself tall as the door swung inward to reveal a beautiful woman.

Janine stared at him open-mouthed. "You've got some real nerve, Mr. Holmes, I'll give you that."

"Please, Janine," Sherlock said, smiling. "You can still call me Sherl."

Unable to resist, Janine slowly grinned, shaking her head at his audacity. She made a grand sweep with her arm.

"Come in, then, you bastard."

* * *

Janine ushered him to the island in the kitchen, seating him on a stool while she set about making tea.

"Annie!" she called out. Sherlock wasn't surprised, of course. It had been obvious from the second he stepped into the Sussex Downs cottage that it housed two people. "Come see what I found on the porch!"

An attractive woman emerged from another room of the cottage seconds later. Annie was slightly shorter than Janine, blonde, pale-skinned, and she was dressed in casual jeans and a white blouse. She quickly seated herself on the stool adjacent to Sherlock's, flashing the guest a bright smile.

"So? Who is he, then?" she asked.

"This is _him_," Janine said, adopting an expression of mock severity. She pinned Sherlock with a heavy glare. "The man who faked a relationship with me for a month so that he could break into my boss's office."

Sherlock's lip twitched. "It was an extremely important break-in," he justified.

"Wow, _this_ is the bloke?" Annie gaped at him. Her eyes raked dramatically up and down his body. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. Pleased with her findings, Annie leaned her elbow on the countertop and rested her head on her hand, eyes still fixed on the consulting detective. "Shame you let that one get past you, Janine," she declared with a devilish smirk.

"God, I _know_," was the groaned reply.

"You're very edible, Mr. Holmes, did you know that?" Annie mused.

"So I've been told," he answered. "Though, the woman who said it was later arrested on charges of cannibalism. My work, of course."

"I wasn't being quite so literal."

"No, I should hope not."

"Though, to be fair," she said, licking her lips contemplatively, "you'd probably make a good meal literally as well."

There was a pause as Sherlock and Annie stared at one another, her mischievous smile competing with his poker face. The kettle whistled and Janine took it off the stove, pouring the hot water into three mugs.

Expression not shifting in the slightest, Sherlock turned to Janine and asked, "Janine, is there anything I should know about your girlfriend?"

Janine grinned over her shoulder at him. "Figured that out, did you?" She carried two cups over, handing one to Sherlock and one to Annie before returning for her own.

"Obviously." He tilted his head. "Though, I admit, when we met at the wedding I received the impression you were interested strictly in men."

"You just assumed that, Sherl," she said, raising her eyebrows teasingly at him. As if to emphasize her point, Janine sat on Annie's other side, wrapping an arm around her girlfriend's waist.

Sherlock pursed his lips and took a haughty sip of his tea. "It doesn't matter. There weren't any likeminded females at the reception."

"Ha! You wouldn't've known even if there _were_," Janine exclaimed. "_Obviously_."

Sherlock didn't see fit to deign this with a response.

"So why is it you're here?"

The detective set his mug down. His energy seemed to drain away, leaving a hollow shell. "Nowhere else to go," he admitted, looking Janine straight in the eye. She regarded him just as earnestly.

"What happened?"

He looked away again. Speaking openly, even with friends, was still not something that came easily to him.

"John, em… John and Mary were having some… troubles," he explained carefully. "So I allowed John to stay with me for the last month. But he's just gone back to her and now-"

"It's too quiet." His eyes snapped to her. She continued softly. "You can't hear anythin' but your own thoughts again."

Slowly he nodded. Sighing, Janine stood up and walked to Sherlock. Wrapping her arm around his shoulders in a friendly hug, she said, "I understand. You're welcome to stay here for a couple of days."

"My presence will stir up new rumors and give you your second spotlight in the press, correct?" he remarked dryly.

Janine laughed and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Favor for a favor, Sherl."

* * *

Five days later John choked on his morning coffee when he spotted the headlines of the newspapers Mary had left out. His eyes engorged as he quickly scanned through them.

_Sherlock Holmes a Polygamist!_ proclaimed the Daily Express, with an old photo of Sherlock in the hat beside a photo of Janine Hawkins.

_Love Nest in Sussex Downs_, by the Telegraph, with a picture taken through a window of three figures seated on a couch.

_Groom, Bride, and… Bride?_ asked the Daily Mirror, with a close-up of what was clearly Sherlock and clearly Janine and clearly another woman all entering a nice-looking cottage together.

"And that's enough media for the day," John declared, shoving the papers away and picking up his bagel.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I just wanted to say how truly I appreciate my reviewers, especially Saffysmom and Steefwaterbutter. Many thanks._

* * *

21

Two days later, having shared a surprisingly pleasurable week with Janine and Annie, Sherlock returned to Baker Street. John came by to visit him the day after.

"You've been busy!" John said as he entered the flat. "Or so I hear."

Sherlock set down his violin with an amused smile. "The press does love a good story. Though I despair at their taste. Isn't a family of five being poisoned at dinner worthier of a front-page article than speculations into a polygamous relationship between three consenting adults?"

"I don't think you've fully grasped how newspapers work, Sherlock," John snarked. "They're more interested in certain types of sensationalism than others." Sherlock shrugged his distaste but gave no answer.

John shifted on his feet for a moment, looking at the floor. Then, "New case?"

"Hmm?"

"The poisoned family."

"It will be, once Lestrade quits being stubborn."

"You can hardly fault him for wanting to solve a _few_ cases by himself," John pointed out. Sherlock scoffed.

"I was unable to solve the case by reading the article in the paper. Lestrade has no hope of solving it on his own." He looked down at the phone he was twiddling in his hands. "I expect a text sometime tomorrow." The sleuth looked up sharply, becoming more attentive to his friend. "How are you, John?"

"Yeah, fine. Good," was the immediate response. Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. John cleared his throat, glancing down at his feet. "Okay, maybe… not—so fine."

"Tell me."

"It's torture!" John burst. He heaved a breath that felt ten pounds lighter. "I do everything I can to pretend she isn't there because whenever I _do _notice her, suddenly—I'm ready to pull a _gun_."

"That wouldn't be wise, considering."

"No _shit_, Sherlock," the doctor growled. "But that's where I am. I can't even look at her, not without wanting to-"

"Kiss her."

John gaped at the taller man. "Were you even listening to me?"

"Every word," Sherlock confirmed calmly.

"Then you would've known that I was going somewhere more in the direction of _kill_ her."

"The one doesn't preclude the other."

John was dumbstruck. But as much as he wanted to argue, to tell Sherlock just how wrong he was, he knew it wouldn't be the truth. Sherlock was right, like he always was. The true torture of living with Mary was the war between the fond husband who recognized the woman he'd fallen in love with and the bitter soldier who saw only the psychopath who'd tried to murder his best friend.

Groaning, John slid into his chair, letting his head fall helplessly into his hands. "Why am I doing this?" he moaned. "_Why_ do I do this to myself?"

"For the sake of your child."

Opening his eyes, John was stunned at the ferocity in Sherlock's expression. Breathing in, he allowed Sherlock's strength to possess him as well. He stood swiftly onto his feet and squared off with the detective.

"What do I do?"

"You have to make peace with her. It's the only option."

John nodded. "When?"

"Well…" Sherlock smiled thoughtfully. "Christmas is a time of forgiveness and reconciliation, or so I'm told."

"On Christmas, then?"

"Don't worry. I have a plan."

* * *

John's eyes rolled upwards in thought. A few seconds later, "So I burn it?"

"Not the real one, a fake one," Sherlock explained again. "An empty copy."

"Why?"

"It's best we keep the original. Can never be too careful. Information may always prove useful in the future."

"You mean in case we ever need to blackmail her," John stated.

Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously. "I would never." He cleared his throat, shrugging one shoulder. "But—should we ever need to put Mary permanently out of the picture, prison seems as good a place as any."

"We don't even know what's on this thing."

"Perhaps we should find out."

John shook his head, staring down at the memory stick in his hand. Just looking at it made his throat tight. "I don't know if I can," he admitted. "If I find something… _truly_ terrible on here… What if I can't fake it anymore?"

Sherlock pondered this. "All right. Then I'll read it."

"_What_?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue exasperatedly. "At least _one_ of us needs to be aware of exactly who and what we're dealing with," he argued.

"_Dealing_ with—Jesus, you make it sound like my wife's-"

"A criminal? A killer?" Sherlock interrupted. John's blood simmered, but he kept his jaw sealed shut. "She is both of those things. And we can't know what else until we look on this flash drive."

"Nope. I can't." John shoved the stick into Sherlock's hand, backing away. "You take it, fine. Just don't tell me. I don't want to know."

For a moment Sherlock's lips twitched with sympathy. Sliding the flash drive into his pocket, he nodded his agreement.

* * *

A week later—precisely three days after Sherlock and John solved the dinner murder, much to Lestrade's appreciation and consternation—John showed up at Baker Street, his features stony. It took Sherlock one glance to discern the reason for his visit.

"You lasted a day longer than I predicted," he said.

John glared. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"An observation."

"So? Are you going to tell me what was on it?" he huffed.

Sherlock walked slowly to the desk, his silk robe trailing him gracefully. He picked up the memory stick and raised it into the air with a flourish. He stared at it briefly, then looked at John.

He took a breath.

"I haven't read it," Sherlock admitted. Before John could respond, he said, "I thought we could look together."

The doctor swallowed painfully. He nodded. Crossing to the desk, he stood, fists clenched, as Sherlock seated himself and inserted the flash drive into his laptop. John shifted closer to the younger man as files popped up onto the screen. Sherlock in turn leaned backwards, the movement so subtle that John couldn't guess whether it was for his own ease or a calculated move to give John comfort. Either way, he was grateful.

Sherlock double-clicked the first file on Mary's history.

* * *

22

The next few weeks of December washed past John like a steady flow of molasses. He felt an unnatural tension in the world, like it was balanced on the tip of a needle, just waiting for the fall. Every second was leading up to something life-shattering, he could feel it.

Despite these certainties, John did his best to pretend that all was normal. Well, as normal as it could be when you were living with the woman who had lied to you for more than a year and then shot your best friend.

_Sherlock_ somehow was able to act with complete ease and nonchalance. He even visited Mary once—or more; how could John know?—to rekindle their friendship. John didn't know what was said or done, but one glimpse of his wife and best friend hugging was enough to set his stomach churning. He couldn't make it past the doorway.

Noticing John's appearance, Sherlock and Mary shared a few whispers and then Sherlock was dashing past John and out the door, with nothing more than a nod of the head. Mary smartly melted away into another part of the townhouse. John was left alone with his fury and revulsion.

Both sooner and later than John would've liked, Christmas Eve was upon them. He made his way to Baker Street first thing in the morning to cement the finalities of the plan.

* * *

John stared at the copycat flash drive that Sherlock had just dropped onto his palm. The white letters A.G.R.A. looked the same to him. It all looked the same, but…

"She'll notice the difference."

"She won't."

"Irene Adler did," he pointed out saucily.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "The Woman noticed because that phone was her life."

"And this flash drive is _Mary's_ life!"

"No, it just has her life _on_ it," corrected the detective.

"You're unbelievable."

"John, calm down," urged Sherlock with all the assurance that John lacked. "It _will work_. Just—" He tilted his head back and forth. "—don't allow her to look on it too closely or hold it in her hand. …Mm—basically just throw it into the fire quick as you can. But don't be obvious-"

"Oh God, oh _God_!"

"John-"

"No, _don't_—_don't_ tell me to be calm," the soldier commanded. "This is my _life_, Sherlock, this is my _child_."

Sherlock's eyes jumped away. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Why didn't you notice?"

"I—" The non sequitur threw the younger man for a loop. "What?"

"You. notice. everything," hissed John. "About _everyone_. You can deduce their whole bloody life story in a minute, and yet after spending _months_ with Mary you never figured out that she was _ex-CIA_ turned _ROGUE ASSASSIN FOR MORIARTY_?"

Sherlock flinched. "I was blind, John, forgive me-"

"And what about your brother?"

"Mycroft?"

"No, your other brother," he said mildly, before exploding, "YES! _MYCROFT_!"

"What's _he_ got to do with it?" was the childish reply.

"Ha! Well, _NOTHING_,apparently! And how does that work? He keeps surveillance on us, he kept track of everything down to my _dinner_ reservations while you were gone, and he never _ONCE_ thought to do a _background check on my fiancée_?"

"Mycroft's slipping. He'd never admit it, but he is. Must be," Sherlock meditated, looking into the air thoughtfully. "He didn't even notice I was spending my nights in a drug den for a month. In the old days he would have found me in a week."

The reminder of this painful topic was enough to tug John back down to Earth. He felt his rage seep away, leaving queasy exhaustion. "Why did you do it?" he asked.

"I told you, it was-"

"For the case," they finished together. Sherlock huffed, insulted.

"But it wasn't, though, was it?" John said. "All you needed to make your story plausible was to spend your time there. You didn't have to do the drugs. But you did."

"Why did you assault Billy?"

He ran his tongue over his teeth. After a few seconds, "He wasn't being cooperative."

"My _brain_ wasn't being cooperative."

"Don't get clever with me."

"If you admit it, I will," Sherlock promised quietly.

John shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. "What do you want me to say? That I missed it? That I was… an addict, in need of a fix?"

"Yes."

It wasn't easy. He stood unmoving, silently staring Sherlock down. Then, "Fine. There it is." John lifted his arms in surrender. "I needed the fix."

"As did I."

"But _why_, Sherlock? And why-"

"Why did _you_?"

John gritted his teeth. "I swear, I'm going to-"

"Just—answer the question," said the junkie. "I promise I'll answer yours after."

Sensing the other man's sincerity, John let out a harsh breath. "Because… married life was great, perfect, but it wasn't… It was missing…"

"The thrill of the chase," Sherlock completed.

John met his friend's eye and knew that Sherlock understood. He nodded. He felt as though his admittance had lifted an anvil from his chest.

"So what's your excuse, then?" he asked. "It can't be the same as mine this time. You still had 'the thrill of the chase,' you were still working cases."

"The thrill of the chase, yes. Even the blood pumping through my veins."

"So why? What were you missing?"

Sherlock's eyes softened at the edges, and John got the sudden impression that there was a dearth of oxygen in the room.

His deep voice humming in the silent space, Sherlock answered, "The two of us against the rest of the world."


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: So sorry for the delay! I didn't realize it had been so long since an update. Nevertheless, enjoy! Please review with your thoughts._

* * *

23

The images on the screen reflected in John's eyes. He stepped closer, entranced by the video. He'd known, but… he hadn't understood.

He'd been able to remember very little of that night—it was all smoke and panic and loud noises. He knew, because he'd been told, that Sherlock had pulled him from that bonfire, but in his imagination Sherlock had been his usual clinical self: sauntering into the Black Lotus's den to save the day with a witty word, treating John like a lab rat for experimentation in Baskerville, strolling in with a joke after letting John grieve for two years.

This was not that man. There was no joke in the heart-rending desperation of his cries. There was no saunter in the hurried, agitated movements of his body. John wasn't a lab rat. He was a treasure.

"But look how you care about John Watson."

John was furious. This man had put him in a bloody _fire _for the sake of determining leverage.

But he also felt lost. What place did he have here in the midst of a battle between two geniuses? He was a mouse in the world of men. He didn't even know what was going on! What was the plan? He had no idea. He was just going along with his brilliant madman, as usual. He'd handed over his trust to Sherlock and followed faithfully, like he had since Day One, never questioning why Sherlock would even bother with his unenlightened presence.

_Move! MOVE! JOHN!_ echoed between his ears. He sensed that this was the answer to a question lurking somewhere in his mind… But there wasn't any time for that now.

"Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And Sherlock's pressure point is his best friend, John Watson. John Watson's pressure point is his wife. I own John Watson's wife, I own Mycroft."

Oh God oh God oh God… That's what it was all about.

_Sherlock's pressure point is his best friend, John Watson. John Watson's pressure point is his wife._

He'd become a liability to Sherlock. By choosing Mary, by welcoming a dangerous variable into their lives without knowing it, John had put Sherlock—no, all of Britain at risk. And it was Sherlock, his best friend, who was paying the price for John's choices and Mary's lies. Sherlock's affection for John could be exploited and that meant that Magnussen now held the most powerful man in the country in the palm of his sweaty hand.

No wonder the Holmes brothers made frequent profession that love was a chemical defect found in the losing side. Mycroft's love for Sherlock, Sherlock's love for John, and John's love for Mary had doomed them all.

* * *

24

For all his considerable intelligence, and it was indeed considerable, Charles Augustus Magnussen was a moron. This was the thought that Sherlock relished as he tossed away his life with the release of a well-placed bullet.

The moment the deed was done it was as though all the world faded away. The helicopters and shouts were white noise in the background, the air swirling about him nothing more than a gentle breeze. All that mattered was he and John. It was the two of them against the rest of the world.

But it couldn't be that way anymore, not if John were to survive this. So he ordered John back as he stepped forward, drawing a clear line of separation between them. Sherlock would be alone from here on. But he wouldn't allow John Watson to suffer that same fate.

"Give my love to Mary," he called. John stared at him with confused shock. _Please understand me, John_, Sherlock begged. _Forgive your wife. Give your child a mother. Share your life with someone who can love you almost as greatly as I do._ "Tell her she's safe now."

Kneeling on the ground, Sherlock was filled with a heady sense of relief—and resignation. Magnussen was gone from the world, and that was good. John, Mary, and child were safe, and that was good. Sherlock would either be imprisoned or executed, and that was… a bit not good.

Sherlock was actually quite fond of life, despite the commonplaces of existence that plagued him. At least, he had been ever since John Watson had appeared and refashioned the lens through which Sherlock viewed the whole messy affair. Love had saved him. Without his love for John, Sherlock would have ended just as Moriarty had, eventually giving up on the final problem. But Sherlock had John, and so he'd persevered.

Only, now Sherlock wasn't allowed to have John anymore. His love had saved someone else, but it had ruined _him_. Yet, given the choice, he wouldn't change a thing.

He wished he could tell the Woman that he understood now.

* * *

25

Two men sat in silence, empty gazes penetrating the air of the prison they found themselves in.

In a literal jail cell, Sherlock Holmes could not remember ever feeling so alone, nor so uncertain about his future. He ruminated relentlessly on the past.

In a prison of his own making, John Watson wrestled with guilt. He was, after all, partly responsible for Sherlock's decision to take a life. He fought the depression settling in his every bone and organ and blood cell. All he wanted was to see his friend, talk to him. Sherlock needed him. But _No Visitors_ were allowed, they said.

At home Mary provided John with silent company, light touches, even a few embraces. John allowed these small comforts—though his conscience screamed to fend her off—because he remembered Sherlock's last words with biting clarity.

"_Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now._"

How was he supposed to decipher this message? Did it mean that Sherlock wanted him to _actually_ forgive Mary? _Why_? But why else bring her up and like _that_? So he honored Sherlock's wish, as there was nothing else he could do for his friend.

For three days neither man spoke a single word. They lived in a world disconnected from reality, waiting for the verdict of men in high places.

* * *

On the fourth day he got the call.

"_He's to be sent away on assignment_," Mycroft said. "_Exiled, if you want the truth of it. He'll never be permitted to come back; you understand that, don't you, John?_"

"When do I get to see him?" was his answer.

He jotted down the day and time. Call complete, John set the phone down. He stared at the paper that declared the time of his last ever meeting with Sherlock Holmes, like some sort of terrible prophecy.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

He turned his head upward. His wife's expression was warm but not pitying. He appreciated that. Mary always knew just what he needed, at least when it came to emotional support. His soul raged in conflict.

"Yeah?" he said, attempting a smile.

Mary's eyes flicked down to the date written. Three days from now: New Year's Day. That was pretty sick of them. She looked back at John. "I've got an appointment with the doctor tomorrow."

John shoved his chair back and stood up. "Is something wrong?"

She smiled. "No, I scheduled it a while back. I'm going to get a scan." Relief relaxed his muscles. "I just wondered if you wanted to come."

There was no need to even think about it. The whole ruse with Mary had been about this from the start. And while John had no notion of how much of Sherlock's decision had to do with protecting the Watson family, or with personal revenge, or protection of Britain in general, it was true no matter what that Sherlock's sacrifice had gifted John with the chance for a future with his child, one free of threat from snakes like Magnussen. So John would throw himself fully into this future and cherish Sherlock's gift. He couldn't waste any more time wallowing in depression.

"Absolutely."

Smile lighting up the room like a beacon, Mary wrapped her arms around her husband. Laughing, John grasped her in return, breathing in the scent of a perfume that was not Claire-de-la-lune.

* * *

26

Sherlock stared out the window of the plane, eyes rimmed with red. Saying goodbye to John had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. The unspoken words had hung heavy in the air, but Sherlock hoped… no, he _knew_… that John had heard them. Not even John could be mistaken about Sherlock's affection now, not after, _"John, there's something… I should say. I've _meant_ to say, always, and then never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now._"

Sure, Sherlock had followed it up with a joke, but that was only out of necessity. He couldn't speak the words, not now, not when their future together was gone and John had to live happily ever after with Mary. A new year, a new future, a new game. At least Sherlock got to see John laugh one last time.

A phone was being handed to him. "It's your brother," he was told. Sherlock rolled his eyes internally, but accepted the mobile nevertheless.

"Mycroft."

"_Hello, little brother_," came a smarmy voice. "_How's the exile going?_"

"I've only been gone four minutes!" he griped.

"_Well, I certainly hope you've learnt your lesson. As it turns out, you're needed._"

"Oh, for God's sake, make up your mind! Who needs me this time?"

"_England_."

Before he knew it, Sherlock had John in his sights again as the plane touched down. A great smile bloomed on his face. This was real. He'd been spared. In just a few moments he would be with John again.

The plane stopped. Sherlock schooled his expression into something more professional while he waited to disembark. Pulling on his coat and gloves, he stepped lightly down the stairs until his feet landed on the runway, and then strode to where Mycroft, John, and Mary stood together. Though no beaming smile lay on John's face, Sherlock could see it in the soldier's eyes. This only made his own smile that much harder to conceal.

"See?" he said pompously. "Just as I said. The game is _never_ over."

John rolled his eyes affectionately. "Smart arse."

"Yes, how I do _hate_ to break up this happy reunion," interrupted Mycroft. Sherlock glared at his older brother and received a smirk in return. "However, I'm afraid I must whisk my brother away. We are needed."

"Right." John nodded. "I'm coming too."

One glance at Mycroft told Sherlock all he needed to know. "No, John."

"_What_?"

"Take Mary home." Sherlock turned a smile on Mrs. Watson. "She shouldn't be on her feet too long."

"I'm not delicate chinaware, you two," Mary scolded.

"I think he knows that, considering he saw fit to _drug_ you on Christmas," muttered John. Mary gave an amused quirk of the lips that said, _True_.

"Go home, John." Sherlock met John's fierce and questioning gaze. "I'll come round as soon as I can."

John was silent for several seconds. Then he gave a reluctant nod, stepping away from Mycroft's car. He and Mary watched as the Holmes brothers ducked inside the dark vehicle and swiftly drove off.

* * *

27

No words were shared between them during the long car ride back into London. The conversation they needed to have was a very private one, to which not even John was privy. Eventually they arrived at Mycroft's office and they sealed themselves inside.

"So," Sherlock said immediately. "Moriarty's back."

"Of course not. But someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make it seem so."

The consulting detective felt a sharp stab of disappointment. "Why… do you say that?"

Mycroft leveled him with a condescending stare. "Did you or did you not tell me that you watched James Moriarty fire a gun into his mouth?"

"…I did."

"Would you now like to rescind that statement?" prodded the government official.

"No! But…"

"But?"

"Well, I…" Sherlock's eyes darted away from his brother with embarrassment. "…could have been mistaken."

There was quiet, and then Mycroft uttered, in a dangerously incredulous tone, "Surely you're not telling me that you failed to check whether or not the man was dead."

"The performance was fairly convincing and I had a few other things on my mind!" Sherlock met his brother's gaze with a challenging one of his own. Mycroft's head tilted slightly as he lessened the distance between them. He stared long and hard into Sherlock's eyes.

Finally, Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh. "Oh, Sherlock."

"What?"

"You do love the dramatic."

"What do you mean?"

"Just because you wish something to be so does not _make_ it so," the older man lectured.

Sherlock's eyes flashed with rage and he stomped a foot closer. "I spent _two hellish years_ destroying his legacy. Don't you _dare_ say that I-"

"But you clearly do," said Mycroft steadily. He turned away from his fuming brother and walked around to the other side of his desk. "I understand, Sherlock, really I do. But I have greater faith in your deductive abilities than you do, apparently. Moriarty is dead. There is no getting around that. But _someone_ has manufactured this fiction, someone who knows you well."

"What makes you think _that_?"

"I believe the message was intended especially for you. You do, after all, miss him."

Again Sherlock felt that sting of unhappiness. "You don't think it's possible, then, that it really is Moriarty?"

"I find it _highly _unlikely. Though," allowed Mycroft, his eyes and lips passing judgment, "you have been fooled before."

"As have you!" snapped the sleuth. A moment later Sherlock wished he could slap a hand over his mouth. What a fool thing to say! What if Mycroft guessed exactly what, or rather whom, he was referring to?

Mycroft examined him momentarily and then seemed to shrug it off. "I think we shall work from the presumption that he is, in fact, dead. The timing is suspicious, of course."

"How do you mean?"

"Come now, Sherlock. A video suggesting Moriarty's return is broadcast on British airwaves the very _minute_ that you are _lifting_ off into the clouds? Mere coincidence?"

"The universe is rarely so lazy," he murmured.

"Precisely."

Head snapping up, Sherlock asked, "What are your theories?"

"Let's hear yours first."

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes spoke plenty.

"I can see you thinking, Sherlock. There's no use in pretending."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. Finally, voice strained, he asked, "How aware are you of the past of the woman we know as Mary Watson?"

"Very."

His jaw dropped. "Then why did you never _say_ anything?!" he shouted.

Mycroft shrugged. "She's a good fit for John. Her past was irrelevant; in fact, it was her past that made her so compatible with the good doctor. I saw no need to interfere. It was clear that she would do no harm in this new life she'd meticulously carved out for herself."

"_No. Harm_?" Sherlock seethed.

Mycroft licked his lips, his fingers tapping against the desk. He gave a painfully fake smile. "I may have committed a _slight_ error of judgment," he admitted.

"A _slight_—I could have _died_!"

"A fact that did not escape my notice," the older man said coldly. At this Sherlock began to settle down. Mycroft gave another forced smile. "Let's return to your theory, shall we?"

"Mary could have used a picture of Moriarty and orchestrated the rest herself."

"Her motive?"

"To save me."

"Saving you doesn't seem like her highest priority," he pointed out.

"But settling her debts, so as to make herself worthy of John, might be," Sherlock countered.

"Yes, perhaps."

"So? Do _you_ have any theories?" Sherlock pushed.

"One or two," was the vague response. Seemingly ignoring his brother now, Mycroft sat in his chair and began typing on his computer. "I'll have to look into them. Who cares enough about Sherlock Holmes to do this, and has the brains and means to pull it off? That is the question. I know that _I _am not responsible, so there is one name to cross off the list. So who is left?" He finished typing something and rose from the seat, rebuttoning his coat as he did so. "Think on it, brother dear." He walked straight past Sherlock. "Meanwhile, I'm off to investigate a few leads of my own."

Mycroft was gone. Sherlock remained behind, ideas and questions racing through his mind. When he left several minutes later he headed straight for the Watson residence.

* * *

The park was bright with green and sunlight, the air fresh and crisp. A man swaggered down the path with a mischievous grin, a perfect contrast to the straight-faced woman who walked beside him.

"Ha-ha, wasn't it _marvellous_?" he cried."What a thrill! Brilliantly done."

"Thank you, sir," she replied.

"My brother hasn't discovered the culprit yet, has he?"

"It doesn't seem so. He seems as confused as all the rest."

"Excellent!" His eyes drifted up to the skies and he smiled. "My voice was quite menacing run through all those computer programs, don't you think? _Did you miss me? Did you miss me? _Ha-ha!"

"Absolutely. You should try helium, it might produce the same effects."

He shot her an amused sideways glance. "You're always _so_ helpful, Andrea."

"Sir, do you plan to inform Mr. Holmes about this?" she asked seriously.

"Not yet," he said. "It would be unwise to give my little brother too much information, I think. Let them scurry about for a couple of weeks. Then, perhaps, I'll set his mind at ease."

She faced forward and nodded professionally. "Copy that."


	9. Chapter 9

28

London was in a tizzy.

The TV news stations exploded with the story of Moriarty's return, reporting sightings of the elusive criminal (all proven bogus upon simple verification) from witnesses all over the city.

No one mentioned the video that had taken over their airwaves that day, but there was a hint of fear in their eyes every time they turned on the telly to watch a game.

The enthusiastic Sheriarty shipper from the "Empty Hearse" fan club pounded on Anderson's door one afternoon. When he answered, she stuck a finger into his face and proclaimed, "_Ha_! I _told_ you it was just as likely as _your_ theories."

Scotland Yard was an unpleasant place to be in the weeks following the broadcast. Every single officer was rife with anxiety, high on the alert. It was hard to focus on other cases when it seemed like everyone expected a bomb to go off at any moment. _Please, Sherlock, _begged Lestrade, observing his colleagues with concern. _Deal with him—_find_ him, at least. And quickly._

* * *

Toby purred, rubbing against Molly's legs as she filled his bowl with food.

"Here you are, greedy kitty," she said affectionately, setting the bowl on the ground. The cat mewed, abandoning its adoration of her calves to begin munching. Molly stroked along his back and picked up the bag of cat food, returning it to the pantry.

For the past three days, since Jim Moriarty's stunt on New Year's, Molly hadn't behaved any differently than normal. She showed up to work on Friday, and the only reason she hadn't left her flat all weekend was because she had no reason to. She didn't have many friends, and now that she and Tom were separated, weekends were no longer prime time for dates.

But no matter how frightened she was—incredibly frightened, that's how much—Molly was going to act just as she always did. She would keep going to work every day, and she would give no one any reason to worry about her. Molly would be brave and take care of herself. Her friends already had enough on their plates without Molly adding her own emotional burdens.

"We'll be just fine, you and me. Won't we, Toby?" she murmured, petting her cat again. Toby didn't respond.

A series of knocks came at the door. Molly bolted up from her seat, losing all of her pretend-calm. Her heart pounded furiously, her palms became sticky with sweat. She couldn't move for fear.

The knock came again.

Gulping, Molly did the first thing that came to mind: she grabbed a kitchen knife and made her way slowly towards the door.

_He wouldn't knock_, she told herself. _He wouldn't knock. Stop being silly, Molly._ Her fingers clumsily sought a better grip on the handle.

Standing just in front of the door, Molly asked, "Who is it?" in a steady voice.

"Molly, it's Greg."

The tension drained out of her body. Letting the knife fall to her side, Molly unlocked and opened the door.

Greg smiled at her and she smiled brightly back. "Please, come in," she said, gesturing with her right arm.

The Detective Inspector's eyes were drawn to the reflective object in her right hand. Embarrassed, Molly tucked it behind her back. When Greg walked further into the flat she closed the door and bolted it before following.

Greg leaned against the kitchen counter, watching as Molly hurriedly tucked the knife back into its proper place. She turned a nervous smile on him.

"It's really nice to see you," she said honestly. "Would you, um, like something to drink?"

"Just water would be great, thanks."

Molly set about grabbing two glasses from her cabinet and filling them with ice.

"So how are you holding up, Molly?"

Glasses filled, she handed him his beverage. "I'm doing fine, thanks. How are you? Has it been really hectic at work? I imagine it must be."

Greg examined her for a moment, causing Molly to squirm under his gaze. Then he relaxed. "Yeah, it's been… Well. I bet you _can _imagine it, so I won't get into details. I'm managing. Best as I can, anyways."

"I'm sure you're managing excellently," Molly said. "You're a very sturdy man. Others naturally look to you when they're troubled, and you never let them down." Hearing herself, Molly gaped at her brazenness, entirely flustered. "I-I mean, not that I-not that I've been watching, or… And not that it would make you weak to be scared, because it wouldn't. I didn't mean—I only meant that-"

Molly forced herself to stop and breathe. Greg was watching her calmly, kindly, neither interrupting her ramblings nor judging her for them. Somehow his calmness flowed into her. She smiled sheepishly.

"I only meant that… Well, I'm not surprised. You're a good man, and good at what you do."

"Thank you." Greg sighed, staring down into his glass. "I try to be."

"You _are_. You should have more faith in yourself, Greg. Everyone else does."

Those eyes observed her curiously again. This time Molly held her ground, though she felt a slight flush creeping up her cheeks.

Clearing his throat, Greg put his water down on the counter. "Actually," he said, "you could say that that's why I'm here."

Molly's brow crinkled. "I don't understand."

"I'm concerned about your safety, Molly," he explained. "As an officer of the law, and as a friend, it's my duty to keep you safe. So… I've got a proposition."

"All right."

"I think I should move in here with you."

If Molly had thought her_self_ forward, it was nothing compared to Greg's suggestion. She stared at him with a mouth wide open, flabbergasted.

"With Moriarty on the loose there's no knowing what he might do, where he might go," he said. "But I'm thinking that there's a chance he'll want to… pay you a visit. And I'm clearly not the only one thinking it." He glanced pointedly at the knife. "Since you've got extra space now that-" He broke off, clearing his throat. "Well, it would be easy for me to move in without disrupting your life."

"I…" Molly shook her head. "I'm touched by your concern, Greg. But I can take care of myself fine."

"Against James Moriarty?" He tilted his head disbelievingly and crossed his arms. "Do you really think so?"

"No," she admitted calmly. "But if he wants to hurt me, he will. He certainly won't let _you_ stop him. It's safer for you to stay away."

"I won't force you to accept my protection, Molly. But if something did happen to you and I'd done nothing to stop it I'd live with that guilt the rest of my life," he told her. "I'd much rather be nearby, where I can at least fight if the time comes. Just my presence will be a deterrent for him. People are much less likely to commit criminal acts if more than one other person is present."

The morgue attendant was still unsure. Another denial waited on the tip of her tongue.

"It'll only be temporary," Greg assured. "Just until Sherlock—or somebody—takes care of the bastard. Then you'll have the space all to yourself again."

Molly swallowed. She had to admit that the thought of living alone, now of all times, was unpleasant. Greg was a police officer, trained to deal with threats, and she knew that having him around would help her relax. Besides, he was the one offering—no, _asking_ to do this. It didn't make her weak to accept. She hadn't sought out his help. He was merely being kind and acting on his natural protective instincts.

She smiled. She quite liked that about him.

"I guess… that wouldn't be such a bad idea," she acquiesced.

Greg gave a proud smile. "Good," he said stoutly. "I'll bring over my things—only what I need, of course."

"It's fine," she assured. "Bring what you like. I've got plenty of room."

Nodding, Greg headed for the door. "I'll be back later tonight," he promised. Then he was gone, and it was just Molly and Toby again.

_But not anymore_, Molly thought happily, staring at the door through which Gregory Lestrade had come and gone. Now she would have a friend and protector to share the too-large-for-one-person flat with.

Maybe things weren't as bad as they'd seemed a day ago.

* * *

29

Sherlock didn't tell the Watsons that Moriarty's return was fabricated. If Mary was the one responsible it was best to let her think she'd been successful in convincing them. This way Sherlock would be able to observe her and decide whether or not she was the culprit. And even if Mary wasn't responsible, it was unclear whether the culprit meant Sherlock well or had saved him for a more sinister purpose. Until he knew more it was best to tread carefully.

Every day after work John went by Baker Street for a few hours to offer help on the search for Moriarty. On occasion Sherlock gave him something useful to do, but more often John simply sat in his chair, read, made tea, and forced Sherlock to take breaks from his work to sleep, eat, and play games. Sometimes Mary came by as well, and sometimes Sherlock came to see them at the surgery or at home. They shared a bizarre domestic bliss comprised of three adults and two houses.

In the second week after Moriarty's return, Mary found herself reflecting on the situation. It felt like John spent more time with Sherlock than he did with Mary. She realized additionally that the three of them had been spending quite a lot of time together in Sherlock's flat rather than at the more sensible location of the Watson townhouse.

_Why?_ she asked herself. _When did that start?_

Then Mary pieced the puzzle together. _She_ was the one responsible. After joining the two men on a few afternoons, she'd kept going back because—as she now understood—that was where John displayed the most comfort, there in 221B with Sherlock. She had begun maximizing her time there because that was when John was happiest, and that in turn made her happy.

But this raised some important questions. If John was happiest with Sherlock, then what was the meaning, the purpose, of their marriage? If John was most at ease in 221B, why had he moved back in with her?

John loved her. Of this she had no doubt. He had almost completely reverted to the way he'd been before discovering her secret. They smiled together, joked and laughed together. He loved her.

But there was something inherently different in the way he coexisted with Sherlock, something purer. Suddenly everything was so clear. Mary felt her heart cleave in two as if under a butcher's knife.

"It doesn't make sense."

John and Mary were alone together at home. Having just finished dinner, they were clearing away the dishes when Mary spoke up.

John glanced at her as he carried their plates to the sink. "What doesn't?"

Mary ignored the pan she'd been working at and focused on her husband. "Why did you forgive me?" she asked.

Dumbstruck, John was momentarily without words. Then he said, with a comforting smile, "I told you. I don't care about your past. I just care about our future."

"That's it, isn't it?"

"What?"

"It's because of the baby," she stated.

"No, I-"

"You had to forgive me because if you cut me out you'd be cutting out your daughter as well."

John took a step towards her, reaching out. "Mary-"

"You read the flash drive, didn't you?"

His hand dropped. He stared at her from a foot away. After a moment of deliberation the mask slipped from his face. Gone was the loving, kind, reassuring husband. John's gaze was frosty now. "Yes," he said.

"You copied the information somewhere else, of course, in case you ever needed evidence against me," Mary said, her face as eerily expressionless as on the night that Sherlock had exposed her.

"We kept it, actually," John corrected. "The one I burned was a fake."

"We."

"Yes..." The doctor nodded and crossed his arms. "…we. Sherlock and I."

"So this has all been a sham," she said. Were John any less furious with her, the emptiness in her eyes might have made him nauseous. "And Sherlock knows, of course. He never truly forgave me, did he?"

"He did, actually, I think. Even tried to justify it to me at times. _I'm_ the one who never forgave."

Mary gave several nods, as if this was exactly what she'd expected to hear. "Yes, of course. I knew you wouldn't—couldn't. I knew it wasn't right, you coming home to me."

"It wasn't the lies," John said, the quiet words deceptively loud.

She met his eyes. "I know."

"I could have dealt with the lies," the soldier went on, the truth finally emerging. "And if you'd told me the truth upfront, I could have dealt with your past as well. I could have dealt with _anything_…"

"Anything but harming Sherlock," she completed.

"He _died_ on that table." His voice was tight with strain. "I know he tried to make it sound like you performed 'surgery,' but I wasn't fooled. I don't know, maybe he wasn't trying to fool me. Maybe he was trying to fool himself. But I'm not stupid, Mary, contrary to popular belief. I was there, and he flatlined. It's a miracle that he's alive today."

Mary looked just past his shoulder, unable to meet his pointed stare. There was nothing to say anymore, not when her whole world was crumbling around her and words would do nothing to stop that.

"Do you feel… even the _least_ bit guilty about it?"

She gasped, eyes flashing to his. "Yes, oh God, John, yes, I-"

Hate and anger written across his face, John said cruelly, "I mean, let's ignore what you did to _me_, your husband, the man you supposedly love-"

"I do love you, John, I'm s-so-"

"How could you do that to Sherlock? _How_ could you betray him like that?" he demanded. Tears came to Mary's eyes, but she could only listen. "A man who has been alone almost his whole life; a man who long considered me his _only_ friend; a man who _dared_ to trust you, to love you, of _all_ people, when he so rarely lets himself get close to _anyone_. And you… shot him. Please, tell me! Because I can't understand it. See, I get that you thought you loved me-"

A few tears spilled over. "John, no, please-"

"-when it was really just an obsession. I can see how you might risk hurting me by killing Sherlock, because you had to keep me with you no matter what. I'm a doctor—I understand that kind of sickness. But I don't understand whatever sickness it is you've got that would let you betray Sherlock's trust, a man who loved you like you were his _mother_!"

"I am—I'm so—God, John, if I c—I wish-"

Mary's hands grabbed at her husband, but he pulled easily from her grasp. He strode into the front room, quickly pulling on his coat, every movement sharp.

"I need a drink," he announced, stomping towards the door.

"John, wait!" she cried.

The door slammed shut in front of her. Mary stood stock-still. Taking in smooth breaths, she let a final tear out. It took less than a minute for her to regain total control of herself. She made her way into their bedroom and changed into her pajamas before lying down with a book.

* * *

When John returned hours later Mary was still reading. She immediately set the book aside and sat up when John entered the room, his fists clenching and unclenching.

As difficult as it was to look at Mary when she was in what he considered 'psychopath mode,' John met her blank gaze. "I can't believe I'm asking this," he said tersely, "God knows you don't deserve it, but are you going to be okay?"

She tilted her head, saying, _I don't know what you mean._

"With Moriarty back in the game," he clarified. "Are you in danger?"

Mary blinked. Then she understood. "You're worried about our daughter's safety," she remarked, concealing her disappointment.

"Of _course_ I'm bloody worried about her safety!" John exclaimed. He stepped closer to the bed, hands gesturing towards his wife. "But that's not what this is about. I _wish_ that's all this were about."

Mary's eyes swept back and forth over his face. Tension, frustration, and guilt all resided there. But there was something else too: concern. Concern for _her_. Mary fought against the tears she felt coming, and ignored the impulse to leap from the bed and wrap her arms around John's neck, her steady anchor.

Instead, she let her mask slide away. She let him read every feeling of gratitude, unworthiness, and love that she felt in that moment. John swallowed, looking down at the floor. When his head rose back up, his eyes were gentler.

Mary gave an apologetic smile. "I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know what he'll do."

John nodded, taking in this information.

"I'm afraid, John," she whispered.

Her open vulnerability softened John even further. The uglier emotions faded away entirely, and John climbed onto the bed beside her. Taking her face into his hands, he smoothed away the tears.

"I'll protect you."

Mary shook her head. "You were already almost killed once because of me," she said. "If that happened again… or if anything happened to our daughter… I only want to make you both safe, but I can't see how. I can't-"

"Shh." John pulled her close so that her head rested on his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her. "We'll work it all out. I promise."


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: A chapter that is _all_ John and Sherlock! I'll be honest, I've been looking forward to this one :) I hope you guys like it. Please review! It means so much to me to hear from my readers. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far._

* * *

30

The next day John made his way to Baker Street and demanded results from the consulting detective. Surprised by his friend's urgency, Sherlock finally divulged the truth to him.

John stared at his friend. "Moriarty isn't back."

"No."

"And you knew that from the start."

"Of course."

The soldier's nostrils flared. "It didn't occur to you to _share_ that bit of information?"

"The thought did occur to me," Sherlock said, "but I needed to see if Mary was the one behind the broadcast. It seems clear now that she wasn't, but that then leads to-"

"Do you have ANY idea-!" John shouted. He cut himself off at Sherlock's startled look. Grinding his teeth together, he paced loudly across the floor. "No. No, of _course_ you don't. I've been worried _sick_ these past two weeks, Sherlock! I thought my family was in danger. And all that time you could have assured me with just a few words that everything was_ perfectly okay_?"

"It was safer for you to remain ignorant of the truth."

"Oh, right, because I'm a liability, yes?" John snapped, recalling the debacle in the diner. "Because tell me a secret and I'll just blab it to the whole world. Better lie to stupid John Watson or he'll give the bloody _game_ away!"

Sherlock glared, his lips curling bitterly. "How long do you intend to continue punishing me?" he demanded. "How many more times must I apologize? I'm _sorry_, John. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm _sorry_ I didn't tell you I was alive. I'm sorry that I left every text unsent because I knew sending it would put you at risk. Truly. Sorry. But how long? Any disagreement we have, you throw it back in my face.

"I'm tired of it," he snarled. "I've done what I can to make amends, but you clearly aren't interested." Sherlock paused, huffing angry breaths. John stared up at him, speechless. Turning his back on the other man, Sherlock intoned, "You should go to Mary and put her mind at ease."

Ignoring his companion, Sherlock strode across the room and picked up his violin. Eyes falling closed, he swept the bow across the strings. Low melancholic music filled the flat, bleeding through the tension in the air like a marker through paper. The detective floated in the darkness behind his eyelids, breathing deeply, feeling the thrum of the strings and the vibration of the song. The sonorous tones twirled in and out of his ears like ribbons of air, and he listened as his heartbeat retreated to a normal pace.

A gentle hand grabbed his bow arm. The violin shrieked as Sherlock's arm twitched to a halt. His eyes snapped open to find John standing just beside him, staring at him purposefully. Sherlock nearly bit his tongue. He was exceedingly frustrated now—John had interrupted Sherlock's state of peace, intruded upon his sanctuary. Sherlock only just managed to keep himself from yanking his arm childishly from John's grip.

"Sherlock."

"_What_, John?"

Despite his brittle tone, Sherlock couldn't ignore the fact that his heart was speeding up again, and not just because he was irritated. It was those warm grayish-blue eyes that were doing the trick, whether he liked it or not.

"Come on, put it down," John said. "Please."

Looking away, Sherlock set the instrument aside. John let his hand drop. The taller man turned on him with a scowl. For a moment John seemed lost. Then he straightened, cleared his throat, and glanced away. "You're right," said John bluntly. "I've punished you enough. It isn't fair for me to keep bringing it up."

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Thank you."

"I punished you for it more than I even realized."

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. "What do you mean?" Sherlock blinked in surprise as John leveled him with an intense stare.

"I found pictures in your room," he said. "Taken of you. The day you came back to London."

At once Sherlock understood. His head drooped with resignation. "Mycroft took those for the sake of documentation. You weren't meant to see them."

"Yeah? Well, I did."

"Well, you _shouldn't_ have. Perhaps if you hadn't been snooping through my things-"

"I found them by accident, you dick!" John shot back. "The day you sent me in there to get your meds."

"Oh."

"Why didn't you tell me?" John waited, but Sherlock didn't speak. "You had lashes _all_ up and down your back, and at least half of you was one giant bruise. You must have been in _excruciating_ pain, and _then_, to add insult to injury, I threw you _around_ all night! _Why didn't you say anything_?"

Sherlock snorted. "What would you have suggested?" Putting on a voice of mimicry, he exclaimed, "'Oh hello, John! Yes, it's me, your best friend, not dead after all. Do be gentle with me though, because my last host was a tad bit whip-happy. My sincerest thanks.' Yes, that would have worked splendidly."

"Then why didn't you just stop me?" John stressed. "We both know that you can avoid any hit you see coming. You could've easily kept me at bay."

Sherlock shrugged. "Didn't seem necessary."

"Of _course _it was necessary!" John grit his teeth. "Sherlock, you were a piece of bloody meat and you let me tackle you to the floor. _Why _didn't you stop me?"

"You had every right to hurt me."

"I _never_ wanted to hurt you like that. If I'd known-"

"You couldn't have known," said Sherlock vehemently. His blue eyes burned into John's cranium, beating the words into John's guilty conscience. "This isn't. your. fault."

"Is that what it was like for you?" the doctor asked, quieter now. "Why did you never tell me? It's been over a year since you came back and still all you've said is that you spent two years getting rid of Moriarty's network. But never this. Were you always in that condition?"

"No," was the honest reply, though Sherlock looked away contritely nonetheless. "Only on occasion."

"It isn't right. You waded into a bloody warzone with_out_ me, Sherlock. Why didn't you take me with you?"

"I couldn't risk it."

The insult brought righteousness back into John's tone. "You think I would've held you up?"

"No, of _course_ not!" Still, his eyes seemed reluctant to meet John's. He was void of the scorn that normally accompanied such a remark, emitting a sense of discomfort instead. "I meant…"

"Yes?"

It took Sherlock a few more seconds to gather himself, his jaw tensing and relaxing as his mind spun. Finally he looked straight at his friend, a measure of defiance in his gaze. "I didn't know how dangerous it would be," he explained sharply. "I never knew if I would still be alive in the morning. When I say that I couldn't risk it, what I mean is…"

He swallowed. His gaze turned soft where it alighted on John's face. "I couldn't risk _you_," he completed. "If you'd died, John… If you'd…"

The genius's words faltered, his breaths becoming harsh and erratic. Images bursting with terror and torture battered his mind, vivid in his memories. Eyes unfocused, Sherlock stumbled backwards, reaching out to steady himself on the back of his armchair.

John leapt to action. "All right, it's fine," he promised, supporting Sherlock's side and directing him into the chair. He crouched in front of the other man as he struggled to regain control of his oxygen intake.

John's heart cracked at the sight, at the knowledge that it was Sherlock's feelings for _him _that were causing the minor panic attack. He got the feeling that Sherlock wasn't only thinking of those two years but also of much more recent events. Magnussen. The bonfire.

"It's fine," he continued to reassure. "You okay? Sherlock?"

Sherlock could feel himself shaking, his air dragged in through scratchy channels. He erected a barricade between his consciousness and those painful imaginings, secluding himself in pure darkness. He lingered there in the space void of color. He was too afraid to reach into the chaotic depths of his ever-working mind, afraid that any thoughts there would hurt rather than help him. Instead he soaked himself in the black abyss, only leaving his senses open to the one thing that mattered. John.

John's murmuring voice was soft and bright. _I've got you. _Sherlock felt it raining down on him like sun at the beach, tickling his heart and caressing his skin. _It's all fine. _John's rough hands held him, one on Sherlock's hand and the other on his cheek. Sherlock experienced John's touch as that of sand: warm, pleasantly invasive particles brushing against his body, keeping him safe and grounded, sending electrical messages between his nerve ends.

John's heart lurched with surprise when Sherlock's long fingers curled around his, squeezing tightly. Slowly the detective's eyelids rose like curtains revealing a play. John's chest rose and fell, rose and fell. It did so several times before he realized that Sherlock's breathing had tuned to his—they breathed in and out together.

Swallowing, John ran his thumb across the back of Sherlock's hand. "You okay?" he asked. A slight, genuine smile was his answer.

"Thank you, John."

"Do you want anything? Tea? I could probably get Mrs. Hudson to bring us up some biscuits."

Sherlock chuckled. "It's all right," he said, baritone voice coated with honey. "I don't need anything else."

_Else._ Anything _else_. John's chest tightened with emotions he could hardly name. Then he noticed that he hadn't moved yet. He was still kneeling in front of his friend, touching his cheek, holding his hand, unnervingly close to the younger man.

Sorry, did he say unnervingly close? He meant not close enough.

John pushed up on his knees, closing most of the distance between them, his fingers sliding across the planes of Sherlock's face. Sherlock's eyes flashed with—something—at the movement, but ultimately he said nothing and John couldn't be bothered to analyze the brief look. He had the vague sense that he should stand up now, but he didn't want to move from this spot. He liked the way that Sherlock's eyes shined when he looked down at John from this angle. He liked the ease with which their hands remained clasped together.

Licking his lips, John would have tried to be subtle about stealing a glance at Sherlock's lips if he'd realized that he was doing it. Instead he monitored the perceptible thumping of his heart, his eyes roved unknowingly, and his mouth was suddenly arid. His tongue flicked again over his lips.

"Sherlock…" he said, voice scratchy. John wasn't certain what his next words would be, but it didn't matter because Sherlock cut in,

"John."

The firm tone of his commander sent a jolt through the soldier. He obediently snapped his mouth shut and dropped his hand, watching Sherlock for his orders.

"Go home and tell Mary the good news."

A chill echoed through him. Rising with forced calm, his other hand slipped free of Sherlock's. The taller man looked blankly up from his chair.

"Give her my apologies for not telling you both sooner. It was inconsiderate of me."

Jaw jutting forward, John nodded. "Right," he responded. "Of course. I'll… It's fine, you know. I understand. But I'll tell her."

"Goodbye, John."

The dismissal sent John spinning around and heading for the door, both out of soldierly instinct and a desire not to let Sherlock see just how much his words had wounded the smaller man.


	11. Chapter 11

31

When John got home, Mary was in the process of knitting a blanket. Sewing and knitting were among Mary's talents, and she often did one or the other when she needed peace of mind. At the sound of his footsteps she looked up from her needles.

"For the baby," she said, presenting him with a strained smile. "Our daughter, not Sherlock," she added teasingly. The smile he returned was also strained, but for entirely different reasons.

Breathing deeply, John sat down next to Mary on the couch. Gently he took her hands in his. "There's something I need to tell you," he said. Mary watched him curiously, with eyes that were almost a reflection of his own, a calm gray-blue. Nothing like the vivacious hues of Sherlock's irises. _Cut it out_, he scolded himself.

Focusing on the matter at hand, John let an honest grin split his lips. Mary grinned back at him before she even knew what she was supposed to be smiling about. Then,

"Moriarty… _isn't_ back from the dead. You're safe—we're _all_ safe."

Mary froze. Her widened eyes jumped between his.

Beaming, Mary gave a joyful cry and lunged the small distance to her husband. The half-knit blanket and needles fell to the floor unnoticed. Mary clung to John and he wrapped tight arms around her.

When she finally had the strength to draw away, John watched without judgment as she ridded herself of the tears that had stained her cheeks. As an afterthought he said, "Oh, and Sherlock apologizes for not telling us sooner."

"What? How long has he known?"

John sighed. "The whole time."

"_The whole time_? For God's sake, that man-"

"I know, I know. We discussed it," he told her, smirking despite himself. He reached out and ran his hands tenderly up and down her arms. "Apparently you were being investigated as a possible culprit behind the video."

Mary gawped at him. "What? But I didn't—Does Sherlock know that I didn't do it?"

"He made it clear that your name's been crossed off the list."

Mary nodded, her expression turning contemplative. John waited patiently as she sorted through the bombshell he'd just dropped on her. After a moment, Mary hesitantly met her husband's eyes.

"So…" she began. "What does this mean for us, John?"

The doctor's head tilted downwards, and he watched his thumbs methodically brush over the smooth skin of Mary's hands. Recent memories quickly leapt to mind. Steeling himself, he looked back up.

"That's the other thing we need to discuss," he said. John meant to continue, but he fell speechless, lost in her clever gaze. It was clear that Mary knew exactly what was coming.

He cleared his throat. That didn't relieve him of the duty to say it.

"Mary, I think…" John said slowly, "I think we both know this isn't working. You and me. And not just because of recent events. Even before that. Only a month in and I was miserable. I was making _you_ miserable."

"John," she protested.

"Just—hear me out." He took a deep breath. "I thought that this was what I wanted. A quiet, no-nonsense life with you. I truly believed that, but it… it didn't work. It was wrong from the beginning. Not because I don't love you. I do love you, Mary, truly. Against my better judgment, I do."

A hand cupped Mary's cheek and she leaned into it. John's stomach twisted. He hated this, hated all of it, every bloody moment. Even after all that Mary had done, he cared for her. He didn't want to hurt her. But he had to do what was right and honest for all their sakes.

"I'm not suited for civilian life. That's the truth. And it's more than that, I…" John's mouth hung open, the words failing to tumble from his tongue.

"I know," came Mary's whisper. Despite the way her heart was filling with emptiness, she bore a brave smile. "I know, John."

"I need him," he finally uttered. The profound truth of the statement swooped through his gut like a jet, but he felt the better for it. For the first time in months he knew he was making the right choice, he knew that his instincts were leading him true. "And he needs me. I can't be… here… when I'm supposed to be there."

Mary nodded her acceptance, unable to speak. John's heart squeezed tighter. Surely something inside of him would burst from the unbearable pressure any moment now.

Sensing his eyes growing misty, John placed a hand on the back of Mary's head and drew her into his arms. Lips by her ear, he whispered, "God, I love you, Mary, I'm so sorry. I am truly sorry."

John took his wife's face gently in his hands. "I still want to be part of your life," he said passionately. "Not just our daughter's, yours too. I want to raise her together, like we planned. Things will just be a bit… different now. But I care about you, and her, and we'll always be a family, yeah? This doesn't change that. Will you give me that, Mary?"

Mary's eyes roamed the familiar territory of his face as if memorizing every line, every crease, every shadow. "Yes," she said. "Yes, of course." She placed a hand on her stomach. "We wouldn't have it any other way."

When John leaned forward and touched his lips to hers, both parties understood: it was a goodbye kiss.

"I'll come by _every_ _day_," he promised, rising from the couch. "Okay?"

Mary managed a smile for him. "We'll look forward to your visits."

Imparting one last smile, John was out the door of the Watson house that was no longer the Watson home.

* * *

32

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock's brow crinkled. He knew that tread. He rose to his feet just as John came through the door.

"Why are you… here?" asked Sherlock cautiously. When he'd sent John away earlier that day, he hadn't expected to see his friend again only hours later. John was meant to go home, reassure Mary, celebrate with her, and presumably begin planning their free-from-Moriarty future together. What was he doing back at 221B?

"There's something I need to know," John said bluntly.

"Surely it can wait," replied Sherlock, almost laughing. "Shouldn't you be with Mary? Perhaps arranging a fancy dinner reservation to celebrate?"

"Nope. It can't wait," John said, crossing closer to him. "I need to know if I'm just imagining things, or if this is exactly what I think it is."

Sherlock's eyebrow rose. "John, flattering though your faith in me is, I am not, in fact, a mind reader."

The next second Sherlock's eyes widened considerably, his retorts instantly wilting away as John grabbed his left hand and twined their fingers together. The shorter man stepped closer. Sherlock did no more than stare in utter shock.

John felt unexpectedly calm. He was nervous, certainly, and his heart was beating like a drum inside his chest, but not once did he consider backing down. He was tired of ignoring the issue or beating around the bush. Once and for all they would have the truth between them. They would finally face the elephant in the room.

"Do you want this?" John asked quietly, far past invading Sherlock's personal space. "Me?"

For a few seconds Sherlock appeared to be encountering an internal error, much like when John had asked him to be Best Man. Luckily the genius broke free much quicker this time around. Clicking his tongue, Sherlock let his mouth fall open.

"John-" His voice was practically a croak. A relieved smile lit John's face. Further flustered, Sherlock fell silent again.

Gently, so as not to startle the younger man, John pulled Sherlock's hand towards his lips. He kissed the back of the hand, lingering there and observing Sherlock's reaction all throughout. He skimmed his lips across Sherlock's knuckles, letting his eyes fall closed.

Opening them again, he lowered their hands and met Sherlock's still-in-shock gaze. "That's what I want, Sherlock," he said. "You and me. Like that. Because, funny enough, it turns out that I am… _completely_ in love with you."

Sherlock's jaw clenched, and John was willing to bet anything that it was done to control the glistening in his eyes, the one that promised tears.

"And what I want to know is," he continued, "when you said goodbye to me on that runway, were you just telling me your name or did you mean something else?"

The consulting detective was uncomfortably aware of the organ located inside his rib cage—so focused on its movements, in fact, that the rest of his mind was uncharacteristically quiet. He felt every beat of his pulse like a metronome.

"Am I alone in this or not?"

"But…" Sherlock stammered, finally remembering the convenient tool of communication called language. "Mary."

"We had a chat," John told him. "The marriage is over."

"What? Why?"

"It wasn't working. Simple as that."

His eyes narrowed dubiously. "'Simple' is not a word I'd consider apt to describe any _part_ of your situation. Was it because of her actions towards me?"

"What, you mean like shooting you in the chest, almost killing you, and threatening to finish the job later?" said John tightly. He let out a tense huff. "No. Even before any of that, I knew it would end. It was only a matter of time."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to understand all of it. Just one thing."

"What?"

"That even without the lies, Mary wasn't the one I wanted. I've forgiven her, Sherlock," he explained, willing Sherlock to hear him, to understand. "So I'm not coming to you as some sort of… back-up plan. You aren't my second choice. You're my first. I chose you because I love you. More than anyone else."

The hand in John's squeezed viciously, without its owner even being aware, John wagered. The soldier had never before seen such total vulnerability in Sherlock's youthful eyes. All he wanted to do was stretch upwards and press their lips together. John had always preferred to let his actions speak louder than his words.

But this was important, and before John acted on his impulses he was going to lay it all out. Because while anyone _else_ might have understood all the unspoken words behind a kiss, this was the man who hadn't known he was John's best friend until it was explicitly stated. The man who hadn't seemed fazed in the slightest by Magnussen's implication that John's only pressure point was Mary, that John cared more for Mary than for Sherlock. Something that wasn't even close to the truth, and Sherlock had so clearly believed it, even before Magnussen voiced it.

Well. There was to be no more of that. He was going to say _everything_ so that Sherlock couldn't _possibly_ misunderstand. _Then_ he could kiss him.

"All I've wanted to do since I got married was to come back here," he went on. "And that was long before I discovered the truth about Mary. I need you. I need… to be here, with you. And I'm hoping that you need the same thing, otherwise I'll have to find myself a new flatmate. And since I couldn't possibly get as lucky as I did with my _first_ one…" John cocked a teasing eyebrow. To his great joy, Sherlock did indeed chuckle.

"What do you say?" he asked softly. "Will you have me?"

"John… are you… _absolutely_ certain this is what you want?" the junkie asked huskily. "There are things I will never give to you-"

"You think I don't know that?" John laughed. "I spent two years living with you, remember. I know exactly what it entails. I'm not asking you to be someone different—just the same annoying dick I've known for four years."

Sherlock grimaced, as though he wanted to smile at the comforting insult but other thoughts spoiled the smile before it could come to fruition.

Finally Sherlock replied, "I'm afraid that if I were… to lose you, should you change your mind down the road and leave—quite understandably, of course…" Sherlock's eyes flicked to John, glowing with hurt at the imaginary pain. "My heart would be irreparably broken."

John had never loved Sherlock more than in that moment. The admittance must have cost the consulting detective a good deal of his pride and well-learned caution. The fact that he was willing to reveal so much of his heart to John gave the blogger a greater sense of accomplishment than anything else in his life ever had.

"That will _never _happen," vowed John. "I belong at your side, Sherlock, nowhere else. I know what I'm signing up for, and I also know that it's exactly what I want."

Sherlock searched his friend's eyes. What for, he wasn't sure. He didn't believe John was lying. But something inside of Sherlock refused to accept the obvious conclusion staring him in the face. After all, how could this really be happening? The one thing that Sherlock desired most was coming true? There had to be some trick. _Just a magic trick._

But it wasn't. Sherlock's brilliant mind couldn't disavow the truth for long, not with so much evidence piling up. And the truth was, John loved him. John wanted to come home. John wanted to be with him, presumably for the remainder of their lives.

Though… John hadn't actually said that. And while the implication was clear, Sherlock didn't trust anything other than hard, spoken facts right now.

"For how long?" he asked.

John's lips curled upwards. It wasn't hard to see through the younger Holmes. He answered simply, "Forever, Sherlock."

Every muscle in Sherlock's face—no, his entire body, relaxed as he was filled with exaltation. The room settled back into an accustomed ease between the two best friends.

A familiar smirk planted itself on Sherlock's lips. "'Forever' isn't a legitimate measure of time," he lectured. "It is, therefore, completely meaningless. It's generally taken to mean 'infinity,' but I can assure you that neither of us will live quite so long. Perhaps what you actually meant was 'for the rest of our lives'?"

"Which in your case is growing shorter by the minute," was John's snarky response. A full stretched-across-both-cheeks grin splintered the detective's playful façade. The rare and beautiful sight wrenched John's intestines, and he couldn't resist any longer.

Taking Sherlock's face between his hands, John leaned forward. He enjoyed a split moment of sensing Sherlock freeze in surprise when their mouths touched for the first time. Sensitive to the circumstances, John's first kiss was gentle. He quickly removed his lips from Sherlock's, waiting for a sign of Sherlock's reaction.

A hand grabbed the back of his head, and Sherlock yanked John into another kiss, far less calm than the first. John gasped as their mouths collided. Sherlock's lips moved insistently against his and—_Jesus_, where had Sherlock learned to kiss like this?! Satisfied vibrations ran through John's body and he pressed himself closer.

The doctor was half-breathless when Sherlock released him. Sherlock's hand held his cheek tenderly and he stared into John's eyes like they held the answer to the world's greatest puzzle.

But all John could think to say was, "How on _earth_ are you able to kiss like that?" He surveyed his friend—lover? boyfriend? life partner? What was the proper term now? he wondered—with bafflement. Of all the things John had expected Sherlock to have expertise in, this never even came close to the list.

Sherlock chuckled. "My imagination has had ample time to perfect the theories involved."

"Theories my arse, Sherlock Holmes," John shot back. "What are you, a bloody kissogram in your spare time? People _pay_ for action like that." John's eyes bulged as he heard his own words. Cringing, he put up a finger. "We're going to pretend those words were never spoken."

Smiling amusedly—and seeming _quite_ pleased with himself, John noted—Sherlock raised his second hand to John's face.

"What words?" he teased, before bending down for another kiss.

* * *

33

"Hoo-hoo, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called, knocking on the door later that afternoon. She nudged the door open with her good hip, carrying a tray with refreshments into 221B.

"I've brought-"

Mrs. Hudson stopped when two heads turned towards her, one in each armchair. "Oh hello, John," she greeted cheerfully. "I've only got enough for one, I'm afraid. I wasn't expecting you. Weren't you here just this morning?"

"Well…" John said, awkwardly clearing his throat. "Yes. In fact, I should tell you that I'm going to be here permanently. From now on."

The landlady grew sympathetic. "Are you and Mary having trouble again?"

"We've separated, actually."

Mrs. Hudson tsked, shaking her head. "Oh, John." She walked over to him, patting his shoulder supportively. "I'm sorry, dear, I know how hard it can be. But things will get better, don't you worry. Just give it time."

John smiled. "I appreciate the kind words, Mrs. Hudson, but there's no need to worry about me. Things are already better." He was unable to keep his eyes from turning towards Sherlock. The men shared a surreptitious smile.

Mrs. Hudson didn't miss a second of it. She observed everything between the consulting detective and his blogger, her heart swelling at what she found there.

Turning away to hide her inappropriately excessive joy, Mrs. Hudson made her way into the kitchen. _My boys, back together_, she thought giddily, setting down the tray of biscuits and iced tea.

* * *

_A/N: Don't worry, the story isn't over or anything. This is only a subplot really, not the endgame. Lots more to come!_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Thanks for the support! Here is some lightheartedness before the real drama sets in. Dun dun dun... Enjoy! Please review if you like it :)_

* * *

34

The next day John retrieved a few necessities from Mary's house, promising to pack up the remainder of his things the coming weekend. Thus the army doctor settled comfortably back into his old room at 221B. Secretly he hoped that he would no longer _need_ the room someday, but for now he was right where he belonged.

He was going to take this thing with Sherlock slowly. He wasn't willing to risk this relationship ending like all the others. This was something else, something that he could never replicate if he ruined this one chance. The only thing that made the pressure bearable was the knowledge that Sherlock viewed their relationship in the same way, and the feeling that things were meant to be like this.

"I feel like I should send a fruit basket to Mike Stamford," John remarked as he placed TAINT on the scrabble board. As always, Sherlock was trouncing him. John didn't mind. He would rather consistently lose than risk playing games like Cluedo, which tended to result in knives stuck in unusual places.

Sherlock shot him a questioning look. His fingers began to lay out square pieces. "Whatever for? He didn't even attend your wedding."

The letters Sherlock had set down spelled JAPE. John glared at his flatmate, crossing his arms over his chest. "Not a real word," he challenged.

Without saying a word Sherlock lifted his phone to John's face. He'd already pulled up "jape" on the dictionary app, apparently having foreseen John's complaint. John's eyes skimmed the definition, his expression disgruntled and resigned all at once.

"I've never heard _anyone_ say that," grumbled John, pushing the phone away. "And that's cheating, by the way. You can't use a dictionary."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. It was for your benefit not mine, and you know it."

The older man made a face, but returned to the game. Using his E, E, and L, he spelled PEEL. He was picking up new pieces when Sherlock said,

"You didn't answer the question."

"What question?"

"Why would you want to send Mike Stamford a fruit basket?"

John smiled nostalgically. "Because. He's the reason any of this is even possible." Sherlock paused in the middle of placing a letter, then resumed like nothing had happened. John watched him. "Have you ever stopped to think about that? How if that one thing hadn't happened… If you hadn't complained—"

"Mentioned."

"—to him about needing a flatmate, or if I hadn't walked past him in the park that day… we'd never have met." He shook his head at the frightening thought. "We wouldn't be here playing Scrabble now. Who knows _where_ we'd be.

"If it weren't for Mike Stamford I wouldn't have found my way to you. So, I'll admit, I'm pretty damn grateful."

Sherlock gave no response. He was perfectly quiet, and though John observed him intently, he gave no hint of his thoughts on the matter. Shrugging internally, John returned his attention to the game and took his turn. Sherlock followed him, bringing his point lead up to 43.

It was when John was making his next move that Sherlock's deep voice interrupted the quiet.

"A fruit basket it is, then."

Looking up, John grinned at the impish twinkle in Sherlock's eyes. He leaned across the board and kissed the smile off the other man's lips, just because he could.

* * *

35

That Monday, Mary halted with surprise when she found Sherlock waiting in the surgery break room at lunchtime, a pile of books on the table in front of him. The sight of him sent a jealous pang to her heart, but she was also glad. He was still her closest friend, after John.

Sherlock smiled when she entered, rising to give her a hug. She returned it wholeheartedly.

"John'll be in in a minute," she told him as he retook his seat. She walked past him to the fridge, grabbing her packed lunch.

"I assumed as much, given that it is your lunch hour," he mocked in a friendly manner. "But as I'm here to see _you_, the fact is inconsequential." Standing, Sherlock pulled out the chair next to him, gesturing grandly for her to take it.

Mary did, but nevertheless echoed, "To see _me_? Why?"

"I would never break a date."

Now Mary took a real look at the books perched on the table. Baby name books. Before the split with John, she and Sherlock had arranged to look for potential baby names together. Sherlock was just honoring that engagement. The fact that John had left her for him the day before didn't occur to him as an obstacle.

A terribly amused smile battled its way onto her cheeks. She just barely restrained from laughing at Sherlock's innocent obliviousness. Full of fondness for the overgrown child, Mary stretched upwards and kissed his forehead.

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighed. Sherlock stared at her confusedly. She opened her mouth to explain why it was best that he just leave.

Then she didn't. What was the point of that? Sherlock was still her friend, after all, and there was still a baby in need of naming.

* * *

When John finally escaped his last patient, he walked into the break room ready for a relaxing hour—well, 50 minutes now. He stopped dead at the image that greeted him.

Sherlock and Mary sat side by side, poring over a couple of books together. They conversed quietly, occasionally pointing to the pages they read, looking for all the world like they were in cahoots to overthrow some unfortunate nation's government. Or maybe John was just paranoid because he was well aware how devastatingly clever both were.

After a moment, Mary spotted him. She smiled sheepishly. "Hello, John."

"Um, hi…"

John stared expectantly at his—partner?—but Sherlock was intent on whatever task his nose was buried in. The doctor felt a surge of envy. He recognized that look of concentration.

"Are you two working on a case?" he almost snapped.

Now Sherlock looked up, rolling his eyes. "Humans' egos are so easily bruised," he said. "No, John. Not a case. Pull up a chair and join us if you like."

John bit his tongue in annoyance. Part of him wanted to sit elsewhere purely out of spite, and part of him wanted to sit elsewhere because the situation was far more awkward than Sherlock seemed to comprehend. But after a few seconds of standing immobile, John let out a sigh. He trudged to the fridge, removed his lunch, and then took the seat on Sherlock's other side. His curiosity had won out.

He turned his attention to the open books, soon falling speechless and forgetting all about his food. The other two were already back at work. John still hadn't figured out what to say when Sherlock offered up,

"How about this one? Ginevra. Of Italian origin; means 'fair' and 'smooth'."

"Too much of a pop culture connotation," Mary replied. At his look, she asked, "Heard of 'Harry Potter,' Sherlock?"

The genius's eyes traveled all the way up and around, head tilted. "Is that the… one in space?" he asked carefully.

Mary gave a huff of laughter, shaking her head. "Just keep looking." She patted his arm encouragingly.

Now John spoke up. "I thought we'd already decided on a name," he pointed out. "Beth."

"Mary has decided to consider a wider variety of options," Sherlock intoned, flipping the page.

John raised an eyebrow at his still-technically-wife, who merely shrugged, keeping her attention on _100 Unusual Baby Names for Girls_. Scanning the rest of the titles, all of which contained some variation of the "unusual/unique" theme, John reached an easy conclusion.

"You hate the name Beth," he sighed. "Too common."

Mary looked up guiltily, flashing him a reassuring smile. "_No_, I don't _hate_ it."

"She hates it."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Really, John, I _like_ Beth," insisted Mary, ignoring their interlude. "Still, there's no harm in looking at other names. Beth is lovely, but… it _is_ quite ordinary, don't you think?" she suggested delicately.

"This little girl is going to have a sharpshooter for a mother and the world's only consulting detective as her uncle," John pointed out dryly. "How much more _un_ordinary could one child possibly need to be?"

The assassin's eyes drilled into him so intensely that John felt his muscles tighten. "She'll also have a soldier who saves lives for a father," she said pointedly. "You're not ordinary either, John. Don't forget that."

A warm sensation spread from his heart like a spider web crack. He cleared his throat to cover his embarrassed gratitude. "Right, well," he said with forced coolness, "you see my point, then."

"I don't know. I think it might be nice for her to have a name that suits her unordinary lot in life." She sent him an impish smile, the one that had attracted John to her in the first place.

He heaved a great sigh, but now he was smiling as well. "All right, I give up. Pass me one," he caved playfully. Smirking triumphantly, Mary handed him _The Hidden Truth of Your Name_. John immediately set to work, nibbling at his food while he skimmed the pages.

Sherlock, who had purposefully kept quiet throughout, subtly brushed his eyes upward. He observed the recently separated Dr. and Mrs. Watson, both content with their books, seeming at ease, even pleased, to be in one another's company.

Smiling with self-satisfaction, Sherlock returned his attention to his own book.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: So remember how those numbers at the beginning of the each section indicate chronological order? Well, that's going to be kind of relevant for the next two chapters. Just letting ya'll know so hopefully you don't get _too_ confused._

* * *

37

Tuesday morning, at John's insistence, Sherlock made a visit to Lestrade at Scotland Yard.

The DI sagged with relief when he learned the truth. Sherlock uncomfortably observed the older man sit, utterly silent, head in his hands, for a good minute.

"Thank God," Greg finally exhaled. He looked up at his friend. "You understand I've got to tell the rest of them?"

Sherlock made a face. "Fine," he said. "But _do_ try to keep it out of the press. I can't have you lot compromising my investigation."

Lestrade nodded. "I'll make certain they understand _exactly _what's in store for anyone who leaks this," he declared. "Don't worry, Sherlock, it'll stay quiet."

As Sherlock was leaving Lestrade's office, Donovan was entering it. They shared a distasteful glance, watered down from earlier days, but otherwise gave no acknowledgment of one another. The door clicked shut between them.

A glance over his shoulder showed Sherlock what he'd expected to see. Lestrade, relaxed and amused, told Sally the news. Sally, wide-eyed and leaning energetically into her boss's space, verified the facts, her mouth moving a mile a minute as she grilled Lestrade. Sherlock turned away.

The consulting detective was almost out the door when he heard running footsteps, followed by the call,

"Oi! Freak!"

Sherlock halted stiffly. He'd long since grown used to this, however, so he let nothing but polite disinterest show when he turned to face her.

His mask faltered when he observed uncharacteristic warmth in her expression. Normally Sally Donovan was ice—cold and unkind, cutting into him with her sharp edges. She sneered and she mocked, never letting her animosity go unknown. But now she was almost smiling, and something warm was in her eyes.

"Thank you," she said bluntly.

Confused, Sherlock shook his head. "I didn't..."

"You helped him," Sally said. "You helped all of us. We might even be able to sleep again."

Sherlock had nothing to say. Understanding his silence, Sally nodded professionally, and then turned on her heel and returned the way she'd come. Sherlock set his body on autopilot and resumed his departure. Inside his mind, he scrambled to accept this encounter into his basic understanding of his life's structure, attempting to reconcile the conflicting truths.

Despite the reshuffling occurring in his hard drive, Sherlock smiled.

* * *

Tuesday evening, the Baker Street boys received an unexpected visit from Mycroft Holmes. With a strained smile, Mycroft asked John if he would be so kind as to give the brothers privacy. After checking in with Sherlock, John shrugged and made his way downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson was happy to see him. She offered tea and cookies, which John politely declined. They sat together at her table discussing the weather, the book that Mrs. Hudson had just finished reading, and a promising triple murder mentioned in the daily paper.

The sound of voices in the flat above trickled down to them, but it was impossible to make out anything more than indistinct murmurs. The minutes passed in pleasant conversation as John awaited Mycroft's exit.

"_WHAT_?"

Mrs. Hudson jumped in her seat, and even John stared worriedly up at the ceiling. Sherlock's roar had been the first word to come clearly to their ears.

Sighing, John dropped his head into his hands. The voices above were louder than before, but still indiscernible. John readied himself for the tumultuous aftermath of the Holmes's conference, as he would surely bear the brunt of Sherlock's bad mood.

After several more minutes, a step could be heard on the stair. John left Mrs. Hudson and watched Mycroft descend. The government official looked like a wounded animal. Noticing the doctor, Mycroft acknowledged him with a vaguely sad look.

"He didn't accept your apology?" John assumed. He didn't need to know what the fight was about to guess as much.

Mycroft grimaced. "My brother is… very proud."

"I suppose it can be considered a family trait."

"When he is in a more fit state of mind, he'll come around," said Mycroft, gaining confidence.

"He sounded pretty angry."

"Indeed," he agreed easily. "However, in the grand scheme of things, this will be forgotten. Have a good day, John."

Mycroft was at the door and John was starting up the stairs when Mycroft called, "Oh, and John?"

The soldier turned back. For the first time that day, Mycroft smiled sincerely. "Thank you for taking such good care of Sherlock. Please continue to do so. It is clear what you mean to him… and he to you. Congratulations on your long overdue insight."

The British government left. John rolled his eyes, ignoring his pinkened cheeks. Only Mycroft would thank him and insult him in the same easy sentence.

Well, no, Sherlock would do the same.

Shaking his head at the abnormal siblings, John jogged the remainder of the stairs. He entered 221B bravely, braced for a storm.

He was surprised to find nothing of the sort. In fact, Sherlock was flitting to and from his collage on the wall—the one that John had first believed was to do with the search for Moriarty, but now understood was actually to do with the search for the video's creator. His eyes were alight with the promise of a challenge. John was terribly confused.

When Sherlock gave no sign of explaining himself, John asked, "What's going on, then?"

"There has been a development in the case, John."

"The fake-Moriarty-video case?"

"Yes."

"Right, and… that's to do with Mycroft, is it?"

"_Yes_, yes!"

"So…" John didn't understand what was happening at all. "Why… were you shouting? And why did Mycroft leave here looking like a kicked dog? I thought you'd had a row."

John saw the exact moment that Sherlock came back down to earth. A hint of awareness was in his eyes now, muffling the manic excitement, and he turned to face John.

"Mycroft thinks so as well," he answered conspiratorially. Though he still didn't understand, John grinned at the taller man's expression. "It's always easier to ferret out his secrets when he feels guilty about something. He's that much easier to read because he's that much more desperate to win back my goodwill."

"So you faked it," said John, dumbstruck. "You weren't actually angry."

Sherlock gave a half-shrug. "I was a bit angry, but the stronger emotion by far is intrigue. You see, John, my brother came to see me so that he could share a bit of intel: that _he_ is the one responsible for Moriarty's video."

John gaped. Momentarily he floundered, then he burst, "So all along, he was-"

"No," Sherlock cut in. That same bright light was back in his eyes. "It wasn't him, I'm sure of it. But I let him think that I believed him. Now all that's left to do is discover who my brother would bother protecting."

"You think he's _protecting_ someone?"

"Obvious."

"But… _why_?" he exclaimed.

"That too is a question still to be answered." Sherlock drifted off into thought, muttering out loud. "If the one responsible were dangerous, Mycroft wouldn't risk hiding their identity from me. But if the one responsible were an ally, why would they not take the credit for my rescue?"

"Sounds like a complicated logic problem to me."

"Yes, it's a promising conundrum."

"How can I help?"

Sherlock gave him a smile. "I'm not sure yet," he admitted. "I need to devise a strategy with which to approach the problem."

"Just let me know when you need anything," said John.

He stepped forward and kissed Sherlock, the action entirely casual. John was full of amazement that this was something normal now, something he could do whenever he wanted, something that had changed everything without really changing _any_thing.

The best part was feeling Sherlock smile into the kiss.

* * *

36

"Sir." Andrea approached Mycroft's desk, extending a mobile phone towards him. "It's your brother on the line."

He peered confusedly. "And why is Sherlock not contacting me directly?"

"It's not Sherlock, sir."

The British government's expression smoothed over. He reached to accept the phone.

In that split moment, the deduction—_transparent, Mycroft, utterly transparent,_ he scolded himself—hit him like a powerful gust of wind. Pursing his lips, Mycroft brought the phone to his ear, shooing Andrea away with his other hand. The door clicked shut behind her.

"Good day, Sherrinford," he greeted tightly.

"_Mycroft, my good lad!_" exclaimed the elder Holmes. Mycroft cringed at his sibling's childish exuberance. Sherrinford was always exhausting to deal with. He and Sherlock had that in common. "_I call with some rather important information._"

"Yes, given the rarity of the occasion, I presumed it was important," was his dry response.

"_Oh, tch. Tired of me already, little brother?_"

Mycroft gritted his teeth. "Would this information happen to be concerned _what_soever with the fake resurrection of our dear brother's greatest adversary?"

"_Always such a penchant for pompous language_," Sherrinford noted. Mycroft's eyelids twitched."_Ah, my dear Mycroft, yes, that is indeed why I have dialed. Shall I assume from your irritated tone of voice that you've already puzzled it out?_"

"I should have realized sooner," Mycroft declared. "When my investigations into Mummy proved unfruitful, it should have occurred to me to consider other, more eccentric, members of the family."

"_Don't let your pride take too hard of a hit. I'm sure you would've worked it out eventually._"

"I do not need you to massage my ego, thank you."

"_No? Oh, very well. I shall remain a useless older brother, then._"

"Hardly useless," admitted Mycroft begrudgingly. "Your notion to invoke Moriarty's reputation to spare Sherlock from his fate was… inspired. And it is appreciated."

"_You would do just as much for him_."

"Yes; however, it hadn't occurred to me to send him such a gift."

"_Go on, Mike, you can say it. I won't tell a soul._"

Mycroft ran his tongue over his teeth. "Is it truly _so_ difficult for you and Mummy to remember all _two_ syllables of my name? What a burden it must be."

"_I'm waiting!_" was the carefree answer.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. It took him a moment to swallow his pride and conjure the words. Finally he bit out, "_Thank_ you, Sherrinford."

"_And you are extraordinarily welcome_."

"And what do you expect me to tell Sherlock, hmm?" the younger brother asked. "What fiction shall I devise to keep him blissfully unaware of your existence?"

"_The answer is quite simple. Take the credit._"

"You mean shoulder the blame."

"_Blame?_" cried Sherrinford. "_I—or _you_, rather—saved the poor boy's life! He'll be grateful._"

"He'll believe that I have been deceiving him for weeks on end. He will take it as an insult to his intellect."

"_You could always be honest, of course. I wouldn't object. It's due to you and Mummy that he knows nothing of me, and only out of respect for your wishes have I remained uninvolved._"

There was something uncharacteristically serious and, dare he think it, bitter in Sherrinford's words. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He sighed. "Somehow I imagine that such a revelation would only enrage him further." His eyes turned downcast. "He might choose never to speak to me again."

The line was quiet. Neither man had anything to say.

"_Do as you will, Mycroft_," said the older man. "_You always have. I only rang because Andrea said you were running yourself ragged over the fear that some new villain had come to challenge the apple of your eye."_

"Her words?" he asked sarcastically.

"_Verbatim_," was the dramatically sincere response. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"It would seem that my hardworking PA is of more use to you than to me."

"_Come now, my boy, you agreed to this arrangement. You can't fault Andrea for it now._"

"I cannot help but feel that you are the more benefitted for it," said the British government. "You hear reports of me, and yet I hear nothing of you, no matter how _vital_ the information."

"_Alas, that is the younger brother's cross to bear. Wouldn't you say, Mycroft? Perhaps you would like to get Sherlock's input on the matter?_" Mycroft's jaw clenched at his brother's accusation of hypocrisy. Sherrinford was clearly enjoying his own wit."_I'm certain we could locate him quickly enough—you do keep surveillance on him, do you not?_"

Mycroft smiled tightly. "I am not so interfering as you or Sherlock seem to believe."

"_Ah, let us forget this!_" Sherrinford declared. "_It is enough that you now have the truth, and that our brother is safe and sound._"

The younger man took in a deep breath. "Yes. That is what matters. I will go at once to put Sherlock's mind at ease."

"_Until our next chat, Mycroft. Ciao!_"

The phone beeped, indicating that the call had ended. Heaving a great sigh, Mycroft set the mobile down. He dropped his head into his hands, trying to massage away the headache pushing against his frontal lobe.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: I really appreciate the continued support of Cantuono. Thank you. I'd love to hear from more of you, though! If you are enjoying the story, please leave a review and let me know. Even just a few words can make a big difference. Now we come to the chapter I've been looking forward to..._

* * *

39

_Halfway through the week_, Mary thought gladly on her drive home. Today had been a good day at work. In fact, these past three days had been much nicer than she'd dared hope for. John seemed sincere in his desire to be a part of her life, including the daily visits, and he was perfectly pleasant at the surgery. Sherlock also had made a point of speaking to her each day.

Mary was grateful. She may not have John in all the ways that she wanted, but she still had a family.

Locking the car, Mary walked up the entrance to her regrettably spacious home.

She sensed it the moment she stepped foot inside. All her movements became calculated. She took her coat off with feigned cool and slowly entered the townhouse, completely alert to her surroundings. A pleasant aroma wafted from the kitchen into the living room. Her nose told her steak, rosemary twigs, mushrooms, and other spices. Confused, and cautiously hopeful, Mary called out, "John?"

Before she could investigate further, it was as if he grew out of the shadows, appearing from around the corner. Mary became a statue, rooted in place. It was only years of experience that allowed her to maintain a steady heart rate.

In her mind she cursed her own stupidity. She'd grown lax and comfortable, allowing herself to travel without protection at all times. She never should have done anything, gone _anywhere_, without a gun at her hip. Now the closest firearm was in the bedroom, too far away to be of any use. She was alone and defenseless.

His beady eyes were cold as he stared at her from across the room. Mary shuddered internally as she recognized the snake that she'd seen in him at their first meeting. She met his cold look with a blank face. Both stood their ground, letting the silence hang heavy and thick.

His eyes twinkled merrily. His lips parted, revealing an earnest, childlike grin. There was a moment. Then—

Terror abated, Mary beamed. She rushed forward, where she met him halfway in a tight embrace. Jim stroked her short blonde hair, holding her close.

"Oh my God!" she cried, laughing. "I can't believe it, Jim. I can't believe it! I thought… I really thought you were…"

"I'm sorry, darling," he said, releasing her. Mary examined him with the desperation of a dehydrated man given a flask of water. Taking her face in his hands, he smacked a platonic kiss on her lips.

"Did you miss me?" he teased, echoing the video.

Mary was still too deep in shock to laugh. "But I thought—" she stammered. "Sherlock said that… He was absolutely positive that you weren't alive."

"Mmm." Jim nodded sagely. He thrust a finger into the air and waggled it. "We have a world of time for that! But first…"

The criminal mastermind ducked away, and she soon heard noises coming from the kitchen. Curious, she followed. Mary gave a surprised laugh as Jim whirled around, a dinner plate in each hand.

"We dine!" he finished.

They took their seats at the table, Jim setting their plates down grandly. The places were already set with utensils and drinks. Jim raised his glass of red wine, which she clinked with her own. They drank together, then set into their food.

"God, how have I lived without you these past three years?" Mary teased with an appreciative moan at the rare steak passing through her gullet. "This is exquisite."

"A man likes to know his talents are appreciated."

"Truly, Jim," she said sincerely, "I've missed you. Why… Why did you—"

"Let's not," he suggested, using his 'boss' voice. "Don't want to spoil the meal, do you?" He scooped two sautéed mushrooms onto his fork and placed them daintily into his mouth.

Mary took a bite of the mashed potatoes. "No," she agreed. "You're right. I don't think John or I managed to eat a single bite the night Sherlock came back. And I will _not_ stand for this food going to waste." She smiled saucily, as though letting him in on a delicious secret.

They were quiet, Mary simply enjoying the dinner and Jim examining their surroundings. Mary couldn't guess why. She was sure he'd memorized the layout long before she'd gotten home. Then he drawled,

"So. You're Sherlock's pet's pet. How the mighty fall."

The nurse froze, her fork halfway to depositing a bite of steak with mushrooms into her mouth. The earlier uneasiness crept over her skin like a swarm of spiders. She set the fork down. It clinked against the plate.

Slowly she looked up to meet his eyes. His blazing cold stare met her.

Before she'd decided how to reply, Jim's expression softened just enough to allow a hollow smile. "There's no need to stop. I thought you said you didn't want to waste the food I made for you."

"I did say that." She didn't pick up the fork.

Puffing out a dramatic sigh, Jim pouted like an infant. Finally he rolled his eyes. With a more sincere, apologetic smile, Jim raised his hands in surrender. "Perhaps that was too mean," he conceded. "I'm sorry. I'm merely trying to ignore the stench of _dog_."

Mary's teeth clamped together, and Jim's eyes snapped to the motion. For a moment she was afraid again, but he didn't seem bothered.

"Yes, I thought so," he mused.

Keeping a careful eye on her old companion, Mary resumed eating. There was still food on her plate and Jim would certainly consider it an insult if she didn't finish. Besides, it really was extraordinarily good, and she _wanted_ to eat every single bit. She speared two mushrooms and swallowed them. Next a piece of the rosemary-brushed steak, washed down with wine.

Now, finally, her sense had caught up to her emotions. At first Jim's appearance had frightened her because she'd feared what he might do. That fear gone, she'd been left only with the relief that her once-dearest friend was alive. But now she was realizing the obvious: Jim's presence in London could only bode ill for Sherlock and, by extension, John.

Sherlock she trusted to handle himself—he had, after all, chosen this lifestyle. Any dangers he attracted were of his own making.

But John…

Well, the same logic applied to John, she supposed, but things were _different_ now. John was going to be a father, the father to _her child_. The stakes had shifted.

Mary _loved_ John. She'd left the past behind for him. John had saved her, forgiven her the unforgivable, and given her a family. Not only the baby, but Sherlock, and John himself.

John.

Jim.

John.

Jim.

She tried not to let her panic show.

"There's no need to hide from me, Mary," said Jim. "I can see every. one. of your thoughts. Really, I'm flattered it took you so long to realize your situation. I missed you too."

Mary swallowed. "Please," she said. "Please don't hurt him."

"What's this? The pot asking the kettle not to be black?"

"What are you talking about?" she replied harshly.

"In my absence you've been _veeeeery_ naughty!" he taunted in a singsong voice. "You were certainly more than willing to hurt Johnny when it suited _you_. Clinically dead, according to the hospital records. How John must have cried and cried…"

"We've moved past it," she snapped. "He's forgiven me."

Frankly, Mary was irritated to see that Jim was totally unaffected by her outburst. His eyes drifted vaguely, lost in the maze of his own mind.

"You know, when Charles began blackmailing you without my authorization, I _thought_ about returning so he could… _rethink_ his choices. But then you put on such a good _show_ that I—"

"_Stop_." Mary's eyes were blown wide with horror. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to click together. Jim met her gaze calmly. She gripped the edge of the table so her hands couldn't be tempted to break anything. "Are you saying that my files found their way into the hands of a dangerous megalomaniac because… _you_… put them there? Magnussen was under your thumb three years ago?"

Jim shrugged. "It was more of an association. Big men don't enjoy being under thumbs. He was useful enough to me as he was."

"But—why?" The doctor's wife hadn't raised her voice, but it was wrought with desperation. "_Why_ did you give him my _entire_ _history_?"

Any sense of nonchalance disappeared. Jim's dark eyes threw darts into her skull. "I had a feeling I'd need to keep you in line someday," he told her.

Heart shriveling like a raisin, Mary stuttered, "How could—could you-"

"Oh, do get over it," he scoffed. "It was just a bit of insurance!"

"He threatened to kill my family!"

"Um, _no_…" Jim replied lightly. "I don't know if you spotted, but killing wasn't really his M.O. He only wanted to use you. He would never have had your precious husband killed. He considered bloodshed too… messy." Into the air he murmured, "Never did understand how a man who licked people could say that…"

"Why are you here, Jim?" The question was a demand. The insane man came back into an awareness of his physical surroundings. "Why now? What is it you really want?"

She had never seen his eyes turn to ice so quickly. Her heart pounded in her chest even as her animal instincts told her to run. But she felt glued to the chair, and all she could do was fight to breathe.

Jim tilted his head, leaning forward on his elbows. "You exposed me," he said. "You put me back on the radar. And after all the hard work I'd put into falling off of it."

"_What_?"

"It was a clever trick, I'll give you that," he proclaimed. The young man was suddenly on his feet. Mary remained frozen as he sauntered behind her, dragging his fingertips along the back of her chair. "Flashing my picture all around London so they'd turn Sherlock's plane around? Oof! The imagination!"

One hand on the back of her chair, one on the table, Jim boxed her in on one side. She stared forward, refusing to look at him. But his mouth was so close to her ear that she could feel the heat of his breath. In fact, Mary was feeling _quite_ hot, and a bit drowsy. He was close, too close—he was taking all her oxygen.

"But you shouldn't have done it," he whispered. "You let your feelings control you. How many times must I tell you how _dangerous_ that is?"

"I promise you, I am _not_ the one who saved Sherlock Holmes from exile," she swore. Then she blinked disconcertedly. Her eyesight was… blurring… or…

He stood again to his full height. Crossing back to his own chair, he crooned, "Oh, Mary darling, Mary, Mary, _darling_ Mary."

Mary fought to keep her eyes open, but her eyelids seemed to be weighted down with lead, and Jim was getting hazier every second. She wrenched them open to see Jim standing still, his eyes fixed on her.

"If only I could believe that," was all she heard before she plummeted into darkness.


	15. Chapter 15

40

His phone buzzing drew Sherlock out of his reverie. Hopeful that the call was Lestrade with a case, he frowned when he read a different name on the caller ID. He picked up and put the phone to his ear.

"Where have you gone?" Sherlock asked perplexedly, peering around the flat. "I was just talking to you."

"_Sherlock, you need to get here _now_,_" John declared, not bothering with niceties. "_Bring my gun. I think someone's kidnapped Mary._"

A second later Sherlock was tearing up the stairs to John's room, where he grabbed the requested item. While he did, John went on.

"_I came by Mary's and she didn't answer the door. I phoned her three times, but there was no answer. So I used my key to get in. And she's not here, Sherlock. There's a used dinner plate on the table, but no Mary. But—well, just get here. Please. Now._"

Sherlock was at the coat stand. Soon his long legs were propelling him through the door. "Don't worry, John, I'm on my way."

"_Just… hurry._"

The detective hung up and shoved the mobile into his pocket. Bursting through the front door of 221 Baker Street, he rushed into the middle of the road and threw up a hand.

"TAXI!"

* * *

Sherlock slammed the door behind him, sprinting into the townhouse. His coat flapped against his legs as he halted sharply.

John stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking as though he'd just had a run-in with Medusa. The controlled man on the phone was no longer present. This was a level of panic far exceeding what John had displayed only ten minutes prior.

"John!"

He strode to his friend's side, grabbing his arms. John didn't look at him.

"What happened in the interim? John, tell me! _What. happened_?"

Swallowing with great difficulty, John wrenched his eyes up to the younger man. His lips parted. Then he pointed wordlessly at the staircase. Sherlock's eyes snapped in that direction, and what he saw there did nothing to lessen his confusion. On the middle step sat a portable TV box. A white piece of paper was taped to the top. It read: _Play me!_

He looked back at John. The older man still appeared stuck. Stomach somersaulting with dread, Sherlock slowly reached out and pressed the _on_ button. The screen flashed to life. There was a moment of white noise, and then—

Sherlock was sure that he'd been impaled. A rod had been shoved through his body and was being twisted, coiling his intestines and squeezing his organs, as he stared at that familiar face. The only question was whether he'd vomit before he collapsed and died.

But he did none of those things. He merely watched in horror as the figure of his nightmares grinned at him.

"_Hello!_" the Storyteller exclaimed. "_Today we're going to play with rhymes. Are you ready for the first?_

"_Hickory, dickory, dock. The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck twelve; the mouse ran down. Hickory._" There was a static break, distorting Moriarty's image. "_Dickory_." Another shot of static. Moriarty's face returned in a snap, far closer to the camera. "_Dock._" The TV jumped back to white noise, before cutting out completely. The screen was black again.

"No," Sherlock said blankly. "No, he can't be. He _can't_ be. I- He- He definitely—"

"Shut up."

The sleuth jerked towards his friend. John's eyes glinted like a predator's. Sherlock was uncomfortably reminded of the night Mary's secrets had met the light of day.

"Shut. up," he repeated. "We don't have time for that. He _can_ be, because he is. You got it wrong, and we can all have a good pout about that—_later_. But right now you need to stuff it away and focus on _finding. my. wife_."

"Have you searched the rest of the house?" Sherlock asked professionally. He was on the case now, all emotions swept under the rug. "Did he leave anything else?"

"Yeah, he did. Those." Sherlock trotted to the living room table, where John had pointed. "Nothing else."

"Certain?"

"Yes."

John came to stand beside him. Two objects on the table were clearly out of place, gifts left by the elusive criminal. Sherlock picked up the first, a handheld bell, and gave it a ring.

"I assume it's some kind of message," said John, "but I have no idea what it means."

Sherlock picked up the second item, a pinkish seashell, and brought it close to his face, inspecting it from every angle. Finished, he set it back down. The bell and shell stared up at him from the wooden surface. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized them in return.

His spine straightened, his eyes leaping from side to side in a manner John well recognized. The doctor's pulse hummed in his ears as he waited on tenterhooks for Sherlock to verbalize his deduction.

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary," Sherlock muttered, seeming half lost in a dream, "how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row."

John's jaw fell slightly, his eyes fixating on the two clues. "A silver… bell and a cockle shell," he stammered. He turned back to Sherlock. "Okay, so it's the nursery rhyme, that's what he's telling us. But why? What does it mean?"

"Somehow it must tell us how to find Mary."

"There's another thing." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "In the video—did you notice?"

"Notice what?"

"He said it wrong."

Instantly Sherlock's mind replayed the words Moriarty had spoken. Watching it, he'd been so struck by Moriarty's appearance that he hadn't been paying close enough attention to detail. He figured it out just as John said,

"It's not twelve, it's one. 'The clock struck _one_, the mouse ran down.' Why did he change it to twelve?"

"He's giving us a deadline," Sherlock deduced. John stood more erect. "What time is it, John?"

"9:13."

Their gazes locked, the tension strung high.

"Then we've got two hours and forty-seven minutes to find Mary, before he kills her."

"I'm open to any suggestions. Any at all."

"The answer _must_ be in the rhyme."

Sherlock set to pacing, his hands gesturing passionately. "'Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary' has a very disputed history," he said. He was off on a rant, the words flying from his mouth at inhuman speeds. "There are all sorts of theories surrounding its origins and the symbolism of the garden, the bells and cockle shells, and the maids in a row. Some versions even have different words, though the 'silver bells and cockle shells' always stay the same. I think we can safely discard the importance of those two, as they've already played their part in the tale.

"So. The garden and the maids, then. He could, of course, be ignoring history altogether and using the text literally, in which case our best bet is to find her in one of London's public gardens, and the pretty maids in a row could mean-"

The genius cut off abruptly, genuine fear twisting his otherwise ethereally beautiful features.

"What?" John demanded.

Sherlock turned to him with the eyes of a child.

"Molly."

* * *

41

She and Greg were watching a program on the telly when her mobile rang. Molly glanced down at it, ready to ignore the call. The name on the screen changed her mind. Hustling up from the couch, Molly accepted the call.

"Hello?" she said shyly.

"_Molly!_"

The morgue attendant jolted at the powerful emotions contained in that one word, in her _name_. Sherlock's voice sounded utterly strangled.

"Sherlock, are you o-"

"_Molly, where are you? Right now, where are you? Tell me quickly!_"

Stunned, she answered, "Um, I'm, I'm just at home, I'm-"

"_Don't go anywhere. Stay _exactly_ where you are. Lock all your doors and windows. We'll be there in fifteen minutes._"

"Why, what's going on?" she tried to ask. But the mobile was emitting a dull tone in her ear. She lowered the phone and stared at it.

"Molly? Everything all right?"

Baffled and afraid, Molly turned to him. Greg had muted the television and now he stood up, watching her concernedly.

"I haven't the smallest idea," she said.

Thirteen minutes later Sherlock was banging loudly on Molly's door.

"Molly!" he shouted. "It's us; let us in."

He was twitching with anxiety, his body restless. A warm hand slipped into his, its sweaty fingers grasping his own. The detective inhaled more calmly, only acknowledging the provider of the small comfort by squeezing back.

The lock clicked and the door swung open. Sherlock shoved past the timid woman. Molly stammered something behind him, but Sherlock paid no heed. He pushed farther into Molly's home, cataloguing every detail. As he did so, he felt John dogging his heels. This more than anything else told Sherlock just how panicked John was. Normally the doctor would have lingered by Molly and given a quick explanation and apology for Sherlock's behavior. But now, with his wife and child threatened, John was unconcerned with manners. He was singularly focused on Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't have to go more than a few steps into the kitchen to realize one very important fact. For a moment he was simply curious, and then a vile thought occurred to him. He whirled around, stomping towards his female friend. Frightened by the violence in his expression, Molly nonetheless held her ground.

"There's a man living with you," he accused. "Who is it?"

Unable to understand the rage in his eyes—

Why would he be jealous? He didn't care for her that way. And wasn't he, you know, sort of in love with John?

—Molly merely gaped at him.

"Have you been harboring him?" he went on, practically spitting on her.

Before Molly could ask what on _earth_ he was talking about, footsteps sounded from the adjoining room. Sherlock and John spun sharply towards the newcomer, John whipping out his gun in one smooth move.

Sherlock's eyes widened considerably, the rage replaced with pure astonishment. John too suffered from a moment of shock. Remembering himself, he lowered the gun, tucking it back into his trousers.

Greg crossed his arms challengingly. "All right, you two had better start explaining _exactly_ what's going on," he declared.

"I—" Sherlock looked between Greg and Molly hesitantly. "Lestrade, _you're_… the man living with Molly?"

"You're damn right I am. Now, you had better give a good explanation for all this, Sherlock Holmes," the DI replied. "_Why_ do you think Molly's in danger?"

The consulting detective and his blogger were sobered by these words, and Greg felt his stomach drop. Sherlock licked his lips. _He's embarrassed_, Greg realized. _And… he feels _guilty _about something!_

"It's Moriarty," said John bluntly, sparing his friend the announcement. "He's back. For real, this time."

The flat fell to dead silence, neither Molly nor Greg having the fortitude to speak first. Molly instinctively moved closer to his side. Without saying a word, her fingers clutched his forearm and he let her.

When they didn't immediately speak, John continued. "He's… He's taken Mary, and we thought he might have been threatening to take Molly as well."

Molly gasped at this news, her heart breaking with sympathy. Even Lestrade had to look down briefly to collect himself.

"John, I'm sorry," he said. "What can I do to help?"

"You can stay out of it," snapped Sherlock. Three sets of eyes flashed to him. "If anyone other than John or I gets involved, he'll kill her. You can't help."

"Come on, there must be something he won't-"

"I'm not taking any chances. Not with John's daughter."

Retreating into his thoughts, Sherlock paced several feet away. John followed him.

"So what do you think?" John said quietly, glancing over his shoulder at the silent pair. "Is she in danger?"

"Doubtful," said Sherlock bitterly, feeling more frantic now that his first theory had proven incorrect. "Moriarty would know that Lestrade is living here. He wouldn't risk it."

"Fine, so 'pretty maids' isn't referring to other women of his past. What's next on the list? What are the theories you know?"

"One connects the rhyme to Mary, Queen of Scots. The garden was her reign, the maids in a row her four ladies-in-waiting. I don't see how any of that could be relevant. It means nothing to me. You?"

"Nothing," John agreed. "Next?"

"One suggests that it's an allegory of Catholicism. Each object has religious significance, and the pretty maids are said to be nuns. Maybe… he's taken her to a church.

"OH!" he gasped, lurching upright. Eyes blazing, he exclaimed, "Saint James the Less, John! Where you were nearly burnt to death. That's _exactly_ the sort of parallel to tickle his fancy."

With a quick goodbye, and a promise from Lestrade that he would keep watch over Molly, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were racing out the door, intent on their new destination.

_Please be there, Mary, please_, John thought as the cab wove through the streets of London. The time was 9:38, and it would take at least half an hour to get to the church. He could only hope that it would be their last stop.

The soldier stared out his window, doing all he could to keep his panic contained beneath his skin. At the other window, Sherlock did exactly the same thing.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Fairly short chapter this time, sorry loves. Welcome to all my newer readers, and a big heartfelt thank you to .58 for your lovely review. I hope the continuation of the story does not disappoint :) Enjoy!_

* * *

42

Saint James the Less echoed with the roar of an army doctor. Sherlock looked on helplessly, the weight of his own incompetence crushing him. The church was empty, save for the crime-fighting duo. No kidnapped women in sight. The time was 10:16.

The noise cut off, leaving silence in the air. Tight, oppressive silence. John stood in front of the altar, his posture rigid and hands clenched into angry, shaking fists. Sherlock stared at his friend's back, wishing he could do something to ease the man's suffering.

Sherlock slapped himself. The sound rang through the space. When John turned around, the consulting detective was looking more determined than ever. He marched resolutely towards the blogger.

"We _are_ going to save them, John," he declared. "I just need to _think_."

Swallowing down every bit of his anguish, John faced his commanding officer and nodded. "Does the rhyme have _any_ other meanings?" he asked.

"One other that I know of," Sherlock said. "In it, Mary refers to Mary I, daughter of Henry VIII, known popularly as Bloody Mary. The garden alludes to graveyards, because her fondness for executions was quickly 'growing' them. The pretty maids referred to-" He stopped, uncertainty marring his countenance.

"_Yes_?"

Sherlock looked at him with concern, filling John's heart with unrest even before he spoke.

"Sometimes it is considered another allusion to the executions. But sometimes… it's thought to reference the Queen's miscarriages."

John's head tilted dangerously. Sherlock suddenly felt chilled to the bone.

"Are you… Hmm. Are you saying that Moriarty is _specifically_ threatening my _unborn_ _child_?"

"John, I _don't know_. We can't _possibly_ know. Not until we find Mary."

The soldier closed his eyes. Sherlock waited as John forced his tumultuous feelings under control. A few seconds later, John was again staring back at him.

"The garden is a graveyard," he said. "That's what you said?"

"Correct."

"So she'll be in a graveyard. How are we supposed to know which one? We can't search them _all_."

Sherlock looked off to the side, pondering. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His limbs twitched uncomfortably. With great reluctance, he finally spit out, "I don't know. I can't see the pattern. I can't…"

A frustrated bellow tore free from his chest. He spun on his heels. "He's not playing the game fairly!" he shouted. "He hasn't given enough clues. All he's done is leave this—this _pittance_ of a breadcrumb trail!"

"All right, Sherlock, calm down." John grabbed his taller friend by the arm, spinning him around. "You panicking isn't going to help _anyone_, least of all Mary. Come on. You can solve this. I know you can."

The detective fell quiet, the tension falling from his shoulders. But he stared at the ground pitifully, no longer shouting but neither being productive.

"Let's think this through, okay?" said John. "Moriarty knows we can't search every graveyard in London. We don't even have time to search _one_ graveyard. So. He'll have chosen something specific, some particular grave. We just have to figure out whose grave it is."

When Sherlock still didn't respond, John began to despair. Then he was struck by a forceful thought. "_Your_ grave," he exclaimed, excited by his own deduction. "He's taken Mary to _your_ _grave_, Sherlock. Where else could it be? Moriarty wasn't given a grave three years ago, was he?"

Sherlock's head slowly rose up. Moonlight entering through the church's windows caught the spark of an idea in his blue eyes. The return of the younger man's fighting spirit made John feel stronger.

"No," he replied. "But I don't think we'll find her at my grave, John." The doctor sagged, until he realized that a smile tugged at Sherlock's lips.

"Then where?"

"Come, John!"

Sherlock burst into a run towards the front of the church. Relieved to have a new heading, John raced after him. When he made it outside, Sherlock was on his phone while yanking open the door of the cab they had instructed to wait for them.

"Mycroft! This is urgent," the younger Holmes declared. The two men jumped inside the vehicle, Sherlock slamming the car door behind him. "I need the location of the grave of Mary Morstan."

* * *

43

Mary shivered. A cold slab of stone pressed against her back, damp grass lay beneath her legs. The wet had long since seeped through her slacks, and now the winter night air blew over her, chilling her to the bone.

A little more than two hours ago, Mary had awoken to find herself in this position: tied to a tombstone with a gag binding her mouth. It had taken her a few seconds to surface into clear consciousness. When she did, the first thing she saw was a figure crouched in front of her.

She'd struggled at her bonds, defiant words unintelligible through the gag. Jim had tutted at her, brushing the fallen hair out of her face. "Don't worry," he told her. "You're not going to die. I just need you to wait here for a few hours. Say hello to Sherlock from me." A minute later he was gone, and she was left alone with the cold.

Mary stubbornly kept her teeth from chattering. Jim had—considerately?—wrapped her in a winter coat and scarf before tying her up, so she had no excuse to give in to bodily weakness. It was plenty warm, really. It was just the air cutting across her face that made her arms tremble.

During a minute indistinguishable from any of the hundred preceding it, Mary's involuntary patience was rewarded. She was proud that she didn't cry, not when Sherlock began to hack through her bonds nor when her freed body was hefted from the ground into John's embrace. She was proud that her voice didn't wobble, not while she argued the needlessness of taking her to the hospital nor while she described the events of the evening during the drive there.

But most of all she was proud that when Sherlock and John found her there at Mary Morstan's grave, the discovery of her, alive and whole, brought out the most extraordinary smiles of relief on the two most emotionally reserved men she knew.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Hey, ya'll. Thanks for reading. If you're enjoying the story, _please_ leave a review to let me know. You really can't know how much it means to me._

* * *

44

"I've phoned Lestrade," John announced, rejoining Sherlock in the waiting area. They were both standing, ignoring the variety of surfaces available to sit on. "Have you-?"

"Yes, I've contacted Mrs. Hudson."

"What about your brother?"

Sherlock's aura grew darker at the mention. "No."

"We need his input on this, Sherlock," said John. "He might know something we don't. Just for tonight, stash away your pride and _call_ him. For me."

The time was 11:24.

They had found Mary with more than an hour to spare, and taken her immediately to the hospital. There were no signs that Moriarty had done anything more than drug her unconscious, but the two men refused to be anything other than 100% certain. When the doctors began to run a series of basic tests, John and Sherlock had stepped out of Mary's room to make a few important calls.

At John's behest, though with a disgruntled air, Sherlock dialed the number of the man he least wanted to talk to. Though he'd called Mycroft only an hour ago, at that time he'd been high on adrenaline and had known Mycroft was the only one capable of helping him. Now, with his blood moving more calmly through his veins, Sherlock didn't want any contact with the brother who had lied to him, and might very well have known the truth about Moriarty all along. Nevertheless…

There was one ring before a telltale click.

"_Ah, brother mine, how good to hear from you again so soon. Might I be so lucky as to receive some sort of explanation this time around?_"

The high-and-mighty tone irked the younger Holmes further. "Are you in league with Moriarty?" he accused directly. Silence held for a moment.

"_We settled the matter of Moriarty's very _real_ suicide _weeks_ ago. Why the sudden relapse of faith?_"

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps because he _kidnapped John's WIFE _tonight!" Sherlock retorted. John glanced around, concerned that Sherlock's volume might draw complaints, but there was no one around to make any. "And before you ask, _yes_, we're sure it was him. All I want to know from you is if you knew about this. You've obviously been lying to me and covering up for someone. Was it him? Tell me the _truth_, Mycroft!"

"_I… am at a loss._" True to his words, the government official sounded genuine for the first time that evening, like his mask had dropped."_I believed James Moriarty merely a monster of the past. Now his ghost comes to haunt us once more. I swear to you, Sherlock, I didn't know. I'm sorry. I presume my help enabled you to recover Mrs. Watson safe and sound?_"

Sherlock grimaced at the none too subtle reminder of Mycroft's vital role in Mary's rescue. "Yes," he grunted. "We're at the hospital now."

"_Should I be concerned?_"

"John and I are perfectly fine and, unless the tests say otherwise, Mary appears that way as well."

"_And yet you say Moriarty kidnapped her. Why? Is it a threat? A mere hello?_"

"If I knew that, would I have called you?" the detective snapped.

"_Humph. Very well. I shall look into it._"

Before Mycroft could hang up, Sherlock said, "There's still one thing I don't understand."

"_Yes?_"

"If you weren't protecting Moriarty, then why did you tell me the blatant lie that _you_ were the mastermind of the video?"

"_Ah_," Mycroft uttered._ "Now that may be… a discussion for another time. But I will tell you one thing, Sherlock. Though Jim Moriarty may be alive, he did _not_ have a hand in that broadcast._"

Intrigued, Sherlock leaned forward intently at this news. John watched his friend curiously, wishing he could hear both sides of the conversation.

"You know that for certain?" Sherlock demanded.

"_One hundred percent._"

"Then why would he come back _now_?"

"_Perhaps the video drew him out_," Mycroft suggested."_Perhaps he too is looking for the one who made it._"

"Oh, well why don't you and he meet up and discuss it over coffee?" responded Sherlock bitterly.

"_There is really no time for your pettiness_," his brother chastised."_I'm trying to make a point. Moriarty may have reached the same conclusion that _you_ initially formed._"

Sherlock stood up straighter, a look of realization in his solemn eyes. "Mary."

Worried by Sherlock's change in attitude and the single word that followed, John stepped closer and whispered, "What's going on?" Sherlock ignored him.

"_Quite. If I were you, I would not yet consider Mrs. Watson out of danger._"

"He may target her again."

At this, John latched onto the younger man's arm. The grip was painful, but Sherlock didn't flinch.

"_Be careful, Sherlock, please._"

"I have to go."

"_Sherlock-_"

The line cut out and the phone beeped. Having hung up on his brother, Sherlock stood immobile. Neither he nor John spoke.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock said, "We don't have any proof that she's in danger, John. We can only speculate."

"When two of the greatest minds in Britain agree on something, it seems unlikely that they're wrong."

"Hardly," he disagreed. "We have the same methods and biases. We're very likely to reach the same conclusions, even if they're not correct."

"Stop it," John said firmly, releasing his death-grip on Sherlock's arm. His left hand was perfectly steady. "Stop trying to comfort me. Tell me what we can _do_."

Sherlock shook his head helplessly. "Around the clock protection?" he offered blandly. "Mary is never without one or both of us. Not until we find Moriarty, or discover what it is he wants."

"And how do we do _that_?"

"I don't _know_, John!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms up. "Where are _your_ brilliant ideas?"

"_I'm_ not the bloody _genius_ in the room!" John yelled back.

"Well don't just expect me to have all the answers!" shouted Sherlock. "'_Genius_' becomes _mildly_ irrelevant when one is competing with _other geniuses_. So unless you have something _useful_ to contribute, why don't you just _shut up_?"

"Ex_cuse_ me!" snapped a low, female voice.

John and Sherlock whirled towards the nurse who had just rounded the corner from an adjacent hallway.

"What is going _on_ here?" she demanded, strutting up beside them. "If you gentlemen don't settle down, I'll have to see you escorted from the premises."

Sherlock huffed, turning a glare towards the opposite wall. John offered her a tense apology and a promise to keep it under control. She turned to Sherlock with crossed arms. John nudged him. Sparing a glare for the smaller man, Sherlock turned his unkind expression on the nurse.

"I apologize," he intoned. "It won't happen again." The nurse nodded stiffly, seeming to accept this. Then her eyes narrowed at him.

"Hold on," she said, raveling it out. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

His smile was more of a wince. "I suppose you've seen my picture in the papers."

"No," she answered. "I recognize you. You're the bullet wound patient who bullied the staff for days on end. I was on duty."

John sighed long-sufferingly, muttering something about "_Should've guessed it_" under his breath. Trying to mollify his friend, Sherlock turned to him and muttered, "All I did was make a few harmless deductions."

"One of your 'harmless' deductions ended my marriage."

Surprised, Sherlock examined the nurse more closely. Ah, yes. He did remember her now. This was the one having a string of meaningless affairs with various of her colleagues. Sherlock had no idea how he could be responsible for the marriage ending, however. It wasn't as if he'd told her husband—he'd never even _met_ the man. He had merely announced his deductions out loud to her.

John rolled his eyes before pinning the younger man with a disapproving stare. Sherlock shrugged. "What?" he asked defensively. "Why should I be blamed for her infidelity?"

"I'm so sorry," John told the nurse, sure that this was merely the first in a long string of apologies that he would have to follow Sherlock around with for the rest of his life.

To the shock of both, the nurse smiled. "Don't be. Hearing my sins repeated back to me, as if reflected from my own heart, it… well, it changed me. I came clean to my husband and agreed to the divorce. I'm doing much better now."

"Oh!" John didn't know what to say. "That's… good, then. Glad to hear it."

She smirked at his feeble attempt. "Thanks. Anyways, thank you, Mr. Holmes. I prayed for God to send me an angel and He did, if not in the form I expected. You saved me. But really, if you don't pipe down I _will_ toss you out."

"Understood," he told her.

They watched her walk off down the hallway. When she was completely gone, Sherlock said, "God, did you hear her? What absurd, sentimental, religious prattle."

"Oh, for—" John shook his head. "Hey, remember that lovely speech you made at my wedding? All that stuff you said about not appreciating the beauty in others? Right. Let's try to keep that in mind."

Sherlock's eyes practically rolled into the back of his skull. "She called me an _angel_, John!"

Hearing it from Sherlock's own mouth was too much. The laugh bubbled in his chest, forcing its way up into his nose. He had to turn his head away, unable to control his mirth. He put a fist against his closed lips, but it didn't stop the high-pitched laughter, especially when he heard Sherlock's low, resonant chuckle join in.

"All right, I admit that was… a bit of a stretch," John agreed. "Still, an angel is better than what people _normally_ think you are."

"What, a demon?"

"An arrogant tosser." John grinned at his partner, and Sherlock reluctantly gave in to a smile, looking away to hide it as best he could. "And they'd be right," John pointed out. "You are. Just like you're a drama queen, _and_ a puzzle solver, _and _a genius, _and _a madman, _and_ a hero."

Sherlock jerked towards him, surprised at the direction his quiet words had taken.

"_And_…" John continued, his eyes glowing with affection, "the most brilliant, fantastic human being I've ever had the honor of knowing." Slipping his hand into Sherlock's, John basked in the other man's endearing speechlessness. It was clear from the sparkle in Sherlock's eyes that John's compliments meant the world to him. He made a mental note to never let Sherlock become insecure about John's regard for him.

"I'm… sorry that I yelled at you," Sherlock said contritely.

John smiled. "I shouldn't've pushed you. We'll figure this out, Sherlock. We just need to give it some time. I believe in you."

Sherlock paused, before replying, "I believe in _us_."


End file.
